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1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

i      '*    .'■ 

5 

6 

THE    LIAR 


THE    LIAR 


BY 


GILBERT    PARKER 

AUTHOR    OF    ''THE    BATTLF    OF    THF.    STRONG,' 
♦'THE    SEATS    OF    THF    MIGHTY,"     ETC. 


I 


BOSTON 
BROWN    AND    COMPANY 


144  Purchase  Street 
1899 


^  < 


^¥^/ 


A  S'f  u 


167281 


Copyright,  iSgg 
JiY  Brown  and  Company 


John  Wilson  and  Son,   Cambridgk,   U.S.A. 


Contents 


PACE 
I 


The  Liar 

The   Red  Patrol jqJ^ 

I'he  House  WITH  THE  Broken  Shutter     .    124 


/ 


b; 
1 


IC 

a  I 
be 
I 


THE   LIAR 


CHAPTER    I 

AN     ECHO 

"0,  de  worl'  am  roiin'  an'  de  worr  am  wide, 

O  Lord,  remember  your  rhillun  in  de  niornin' ! 

It's  a  mighty  long  way  up  de  mountain  side, 
An'  dey  ain't  no  place  whar  de  sinners  kin  hide, 

When  de  Lord  comes  in  de  mornin'." 

ITT'ITH  a  plaintive  quirk  of  the  voice  the  singer 
paused,  gaily  flicked  the  strings  of  the 
banjo,  then  put  her  hand  flat  upon  them  to  stop 
the  vibration,  and  smiled  round  on  her  admirers. 
The  group  were  applauding  heartily:  a  chorus 
said  :  "  Another  verse,  please,  Mrs.  Detlor." 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  I   know,  I  'm  afraid,"  was  the 
icply.     "I   haven't  sung   it  for   years  and  years, 

and   I    should   have   to  think    too  hard no,   no, 

believe  me,  I  can't   remember  any   more.     I  wish 
I  could,  really." 


The  Liar 


A    murmur   of   protrst    rose,    but    there    came 

through  the    window   taiiulv    yet    dearly  a  man's 

voice  : 

**  Look  \i|)  aiul  look  aroun', 
Fro  you'  burdcMi  on  tic  grown'  "  — 

The  brown  eyes  of  the  woman  gicw  larger, 
there  ran  through  her  smile  a  kind  of  frightened 
surprise,  but  she  did  not  start,  nor  act  as  if  the 
circumstance  were  singular. 

One  of  the  men  in  the  room  —  Haron,  an 
honest,  blundering  fellow  —  started  towards  the 
window  to  see  who  the  prompter  was,  but  the  host 
—  of  intuitive  perception  —  saw  that  this  might 
not  be  agreeable  to  their  entertainer,  and  said 
quietly  :  "  Don't  go  to  the  window.  Baron.  See, 
Mrs.  Detlor  is  going  to  sing." 

Baron  sat  down.  There  was  an  instant's  pause 
in  which  Cieorge  Hagar,  the  host,  felt  a  strong 
thrill  of  excitement.  To  him  Airs.  Detlor  seemed 
in  a  dream,  though  her  lips  still  smiled,  and  her 
eyes  wandered  pleasantly  over  the  heads  of  the 
company.  She  was  looking  at  none  of  them ;  but 
her  body  was  bent  slightly  towards  the  window, 
listening  with  it,  as  the  deaf  and  dumb  do. 

Her  fingers  picked  the  strings  lightly,  then 
warmly,  and  her  voice  rose,  clear,  quaint,  and  high  : 


■i. 


came 


i( 


An  Echo 

Look  up  :in'  look  aroiin', 


Vn 


)  vou 


Inirdi 


tn  oil  til"  grt)iin', 


Kc:i(l\  up  an'  git  ili-  crown, 

W'lun  di   Loiil  (onu's  in  ile  iiioruin'  — 

XVhi'n  lie  l.oiil  (oMu^  in  ili*  nioniin' !  " 


.i 


a 


The  \  oice  had  that  strange  pathos,  \  t-iiicd  with 
humor,  which  marks  nio^t  nc'oi\>  h\nins  and 
songs;  so  that  c\  en  those  picsent  who  liad  ne\er 
heard  an  Americanized  negro  sing  /ere  impi<  ^;■^ed, 
and  '.•:'' w  almost  paintnlK  (piict,  till  ihe  xoiee 
Glinted  awav  into  silence. 

With  the  la>.t  low  impulsion,  however,  the  voice 
from  witliout  hegan  again  as  \i  m  repK .  At  the 
first  nolc  one  ot  the  voung  girls  present  made  a 
start  for  the  window.  Mrs.  Detlor  laid  a  hand 
upon  her  arm.  "No,"  she  said,  "you  will  spoil 
—  the  effect.      Let  us  keep  up  the  mystery." 

There  was  a  stran"  :  puzzled  look  on  her  face, 
apparent  most  to  (icorge  Hag.ir  —  the  others  only 
saw  the  laccjuer  of  amusement,  summoned  for  the 
moment's  use. 

"Sit  down,"  she  added,  and  she  drew  the  Young 


(lirl    to   her    feet. 


and 


pa 


ssecl 


an    arm    rount 


1    li 


er 


shoulder.      This  was   pleasant   to  the  ^'oung  Girl. 


It 


sinti 


led   h 


cr  out  for   a  notice  w 


hieh 


wou 


Id 


make 


her   friends    envio 


us. 


The  Liar 


It  was  not  a  song  coming  to  them  from  with- 
out, not  a  melodv  ;  but  a  kind  of  chant,  hummed 
first  in  a  low,  sonorous  tone,  and  then  rising  and 
falling  in  weird  undulations.  The  night  was  still, 
and  the  trees  at  the  window  gave  forth  a  sound 
like  the  monotonous  s-sh  of  rain.  The  chant  con- 
tinued for  about  a  minute.  W^hilc  it  lasted  Mrs. 
Detlor  sat  moticjiiless,  and  her  hands  lay  lightly  on 
the  shoulders  of  the  Young  Ciirl.  Hagar  dropped 
his  foot  on  the  floor  at  marching  intervals,  —  by 
instinct  he  had  caui^ht  at  the  meanino;  of  the 
sounds.  When  the  voice  had  finished  Mrs. 
Detlor  raised  her  head  towards  the  window,  with 
a  quick  pretty  way  she  had,  her  eves  much  shaded 
by  the  long  lashes.  Her  lips  were  parted  in  the 
smile  whicli  had  made  both  men  and  women  call 
her  merry,  amiable,  and  fascinating. 

"You  don't  know  what  it  is,  of  course,"  she 
said,  looking  round,  as  though  the  occurrence  had 
been  ordinary.  "  It  is  a  chant  hummed  bv  the 
negro  wood-cutters  of  Louisiana,  as  the\'  tramp 
homewards  in  the  evening.      It  is  prettv,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"It's  a  rum  thing,"  said  one  thev  called  The 
Prince,  though  Alpheus  Richmond  was  the  name  by 
which  his  godmother  knew  him  ;  "  but  who  's  the 
gentleman  behind  the  scenes  —  in  the  green  room  ?  " 


An  Echo 


\ 


.1 


As  he  said  this  he  looked  — or  tried  to  look  — 
knowingly  at  Mrs.  Detlor;  for  The  Prince  de- 
sired greatly  to  appear  familiar  with  people  and 
things  theatrical  ;  and  Mrs.  Detlor  knew  many  in 
the  actor  and  artist  world. 

Mrs.  Detlor  smiled  in  his  direction,  but  the 
smile  was  not  reassuring.  He  was,  however, 
delighted.  He  almost  asked  her  then  and  there 
to  ride  with  him  on  the  morrow  :  hut  he  remem- 
bered that  he  could  dri\e  much  better  than  he 
could  ride  ;  and,  in  the  pause  necessary  to  think 
the  matter  out,  the  chance  passed  —  he  could  not 
concentrate  himself  easily. 

"Yes,  who  is  it  ?  "  said  the  Young  Girl. 

"  Lord,  I  '11  Hnd  out,"  said  the  flaring  Alpheus, 
a  jewelled  hand  at  his  tie  as  he  rose. 

But  their  host  had  made  up  his  mind.  He  did 
not  know  whether  Mrs.  Detlor  did  or  did  not 
recognize  the  \c)icc,  but  he  felt  that  she  did  not 
wish  the  matter  to  go  further.  7'he  thing  was 
irregular,  if  he  were  a  stranger;  and  if  he  were 
not  a  stranjrer  it  lav  with  Mrs.  Detlor  whether 
he  should  be  discovered. 

There  was  a  curious  stillness  in  Mrs.  Detlor's 
manner,  as  though  she  were  waiting  further  devel- 
opment   of   the    Incident.      Her    mind    was    in    a 


The  Liar 


whirl  of  memories  ;  there  was  a  strange  thump- 
ing sensation  in  her  head  —  yet  who  was  to  know 
that  from  her  manner  ? 

She  could  not  help  flashing  a  look  of  thanks  to 
Hagar  when  he  stepped  quickly  between  The 
Prince  and  the  window,  and  said,  in  what  she 
called  his   light  comedy   manner: 

"No,  no,  Richmond,  let  us  keep  up  the  illusion. 
The  gentleman  has  done  us  a  service,  —  otherwise 
we  had  lost  the  best  half  of  iVlrs.  Detlor's  song  — 
we  '11  not  put  him  at  disadvantage." 

"Oh,  but  look  here,  Hagar,"  said  the  other, 
protestingly,  as  he  laid  his  hand  upon   the  curtains. 

Pew  men  could  resist  the  quiet  decision  of 
Hagar's  manner,  though  he  often  laughed  that 
having  but  a  poor  opinion  of  his  will  as  he  knew 
it,  and  belie\ing  that  he  acted  firmness  without 
possessing  it,  save  where  he  was  purely  selfish.  He 
put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  carelessly,  and  said  in  a 
low  decisive  tone  :   "  Don't  do  it,  if  you  please." 

But  he  smiled  too,  so  that  others,  now  gossiping, 
were  unaware  that  the  words  were  not  of  as  light 
comedy  as  the  manner.  Hagar  immediately  began 
a  gener?.!  conversation  and  asked  Baron  to  sing 
"  The  Banks  o'  Ben  Lomond  -,  "  feeling  sure  that 
Mrs.   Detlor  did   not  wish  to  sing  again.     Again 


An  Fxho 

she  sent  him  a  (juick  look  of  thanks,  and  waved 
her  Hngcrs  in  protest  to  those  who  were  urging 
her.  She  clapped  her  hands  as  she  saw  Haron 
rise,  and  the  others,  for  politeness'  sake,  could  not 
urge  her  more. 


For  the  stranger.  Only  the  morning  of  that 
dav  he  had  arrived  at  the  pretty  town  of  Herridon 
among  hills  and  moors,  set  apart  for  the  idle  and 
ailing  of  this  world.  Of  the  world  literally,  for 
there  might  be  seen  at  the  Pump  Room  visitors 
from  every  point  of  the  compass  :  Hindu  gentle- 
men brought  bv  sons  who  ate  their  legal  dinners 
near  Temple  Bar  ;  invalided  officers  from  Hong 
Kong,  Bombay,  Aden,  the  Ciold  Coast,  and  other- 
where-,  Australian  squatters  and  their  daughters; 
attaches  of  foreign  embassies  ;  a  Prince  from  the 
Straits  Settlements;  priests  without  number  from 
the  northern  counties ;  Scotch  manufacturers  ; 
ladies  wearied  from  the  London  season ;  artists, 
actors,  and  authors,  expected  to  do  at  inopportune 
times  embarrassing  things ;  and  \'erv  many  from 
Columbia,  Happy  Land,  who  go  to  Herridon  as 
to  Westminster  —  to  see  the  ruins. 

It  is  difficult  for  Herridon  to  take  its  visitors 
seriously ;    and    quite  as   difficult    for    the  visitors 

7 


> 


The  Liar 

to  take  Herridon  seriously.  That  is  what  the 
stranger  thought  as  he  tramped  back  and  forth  from 
point  to  point  through  the  town.  He  had  only 
been  there  twelve  hours,  yet  he  was  familiar  with 
the  place.  He  had  the  instincts  and  the  methods 
of  the  true  traveller.  He  never  was  guilty  of  sight- 
seeing in  the  usual  sense.  But  it  was  his  habit  to 
get  general  outlines  fixed  at  once.  In  Paris,  in 
London,  he  had  taken  a  map,  had  gone  to  some 
central  spot,  and  had  studied  the  cities  from  there  ; 
had  travelled  in  different  directions,  merely  to  get 
his  bearings.  After  that  he  was  quite  at  home. 
This  was  singular  too,  for  his  life  had  been,  of 
recent  years,  much  out  of  the  beaten  tracks  of  civili- 
sation !  He  got  the  outlines  of  Herridon  in  an  hour 
or  two,  and  by  evening  he  could  have  drawn  a 
pretty  accurate  chart  of  it,  both  as  to  detail,  and 
from  the  poini  of  a  bird's-eye  view  at  the  top  of 
the  moor. 

The  moor  had  delighted  him.  He  looked  away 
to  all  quarters,  and  saw  hill  and  valley  wrapped 
in  that  green.  He  saw  it  under  an  almost  cloud- 
less skv,  and  he  look  off  his  hat  and  threw  his 
grizzled  head  back  with  a  boyish  laugh. 

"  It 's  good  —  good  'enough  !  '*  he  said.  "  I  've 
seen  so  much  country  all  on  edge,  that  this  is  like 

8 


An  Echo 


getting  a  peep  over  the  wall  on  the  other  side  — 
the  other  side  of  Jordan.  And  yet  that  was  God's 
country  with  the  sun  on  it,  as  Gladney  used  to  say 
—  poor  devil !  '* 

He  dropped  his  eyes  from  the  prospect  before 
him,  and  pushed  the  sod  and  ling  with  his  foot 
musingly.  "  If  I  had  been  in  Gladney 's  place 
would  I  have  done  as  he  did  ?  and  if  he  had  been 
in  my  place  would  he  have  done  as  I  did  ?  One 
thing  is  certain,  there  'd  have  been  bad  luck  for 
both  of  us  this  wav  or  that,  with  a  woman  in  the 
equation.  He  was  a  fool  —  that's  the  way  it 
looked  ;  and  I  was  a  liar  —  to  all  appearances  ;  and 
there  's  no  heaven  on  earth  for  either  :  I  Ve  seen 
that  all  along  the  line.  One  thing  is  sure  :  Glad- 
ney has  reached,  as  in  his  engineering  phrase  he  'd 
say,  the  line  of  saturation,  and  I  the  line  of  liver, 
thanks  be  to  London  and  its  joys  !  And  now  for 
sulphur  water  and  —  damnation  !  " 

This  last  word  was  not  the  real  end  to  the  sen- 
tence. He  h^d,  while  lighting  his  cigar,  suddenly 
remembered  something.  He  puffed  the  cigar 
fiercely,  and  immediately  drew  out  a  letter.  He 
stood  looking  at  it  for  a  minute,  and  presently  let 
go   a  long  breath. 

"  So  much  for  London,  and  getting  out  of  my 


I 


i 


The  Liar 


} 


old  tracks  !  Now,  it  can't  go  for  another  three 
days,  and  he  needing  the  dollars.  ...  I  '11  read  it 
over  again,  anyhow."     He  took  it  out  and  read  : 

"  Cheer  up,  and  get  out  of  the  hospital  as  soon 
as  you  can,  and  come  over  yourself.  And  remem- 
ber in  the  future  that  you  can't  fool  about  the  fire- 
escapes  of  a  thirteen-story  flat,  as  you  can  a  straight 
foot-hill  of  the  Rockies,  or  a  Lake  Supi;r5or  silver 
mine.  Here  goes  to  you  one  thousand  dollars 
(per  draft),  and  please  to  recall  that  what 's  mine 
is  yours,  and  what 's  yours  is  your  own,  and  there  a 
a  good  big  sum  that  '11  be  yours  :  concerning  which 
later.  But  take  care  of  yourself,  Gladney.  You 
can't  drown  a  mountain  with  a  squirt  of  a  rattle- 
snake's tooth ;  you  can't  flood  a  memory  with 
cognac  :  I  've  tried  it.  For  God's  sake  don't  drink 
any  more.  What 's  the  use  ?  Smile  in  the  see- 
saw of  the  knives.  You  can  only  be  killed  once, 
and,  believe  me,  there  's  twice  the  fun  in  taking  bad 
luck  naked,  as  it  were.  Do  you  remember  the 
time  you,  and  I,  and  Ned  Bassett,  the  H.  B.  Com- 
pany's man,  struck  the  camp  of  Bloods  on  the  Grey 
Goose  River  ?  how  the  squaw  lied  and  said  he 
was  the  trader  that  dropped  their  messenger  in  a 
hot  spring,  and  they  began  to  peel  Ned  before  our 
eyes  ?   how  he  said  as    they    drew    the  first    chip 


lO 


An  Echo 

from  his  shoulder:  *  Tell  the  Companv,  boys,  that 
it's  according  to  the  motto  on  their  flag,  Pro  Pelle 
Cutem  :  Skin  for  Skin  !  '  how  the  woman  backed 
down,  and  he  got  off  with  a  strip  of  his  pelt  gone  ? 
how  the  Medicine  Man  took  little  bits  of  us  and 
the  red  niggers  too,  and  put  it  on  the  raw  place,  and 
fixed  him  up  again  ?     Well,  that 's  the  way  to  do  it  i 


id  if 


ili 


and  It  you  come  up  smiling  every  time,  you  get  your 
pound  of  flesh  one  way  or  another.  Play  the  game 
with  a  clear  head  and  a  little  insolence,  Gladney, 
and  you  don't  find  the  world  so  bad  at  its  worst. 

"  So  much  for  so  much.  Now  for  the  com- 
mission you  gave  me.  I  'd  rather  it  had  been 
anything  else,  for  I  think  I  'm  the  last  man  in  the 
world  for  duty  where  women  are  concerned.  That 
reads  queer,  but  you  know  what  I  mean.  I  mean 
that  women  puzzle  me,  and  I  'm  apt  to  take  them 
too  literally.  If  I  found  your  wife,  and  she  was  n't 
as  straightforward  as  you  are.  Jack  Gladney,  I  'd  as 
like  as  not  get  things  in  a  tangle.  You  know  I 
thought  it  would  be  better  to  let  things  sleep  —  resur- 
rections are  uncomfortable  things  mostly.  How- 
ever, here  I  am  to  do  what 's  possible.  What 
have  I  done  ?  Nothing.  I  have  n't  found  her  yet. 
You  did  n't  want  me  to  advertise,  and  I  have  n't. 
She  has  n't  been  acting  for  a  long  time,  and  no  one 

St 


J 

i 


■/i 


The  Liar 


l! 
1/  i 
1/       » 


seems  to  know  exactly  where  she  is.  She  was 
travelling  abroad  with  some  people  called  Brans- 
combes,  and  i  'm  going  to  send  a  letter  through 
their  agent.      We  shall   see. 

"Lastly  :  for  business.  I've  floated  the  Aurora 
Company  with  a  capital  of  a  million  dollars  ;  and 
that  ought  to  carry  the  thing  for  all  we  want  to  do. 
So,  be  jovful.  But  you  shall  have  full  particulars 
next  mail.  I  'm  just  off  to  Herridon  for  the  waters. 
Can  you  think  it,  Gladney  —  Mark  Telford,  late 
of  the  H.  B.  C,  coming  down  to  that  ?  But  it's 
a  fact.  Lun(  heons  and  dinners  in  London,  E.  C, 
with  liquids  various,  have  done  their  fiery  work, 
and  so  it's  stand  by  the  halliards  for  bad  weather  ! 
Once  more,  keep  your  nose  up  to  the  wind,  and 
believe  that   I   am   always,"  etc. 

He  read  it  through,  dwelling  here  and  there  as  if 
to  reconsider;  and,  when  it  was  finished,  put  it 
back  into  his  pocket,  tore  up  the  envelope,  and  let 
it  fall  to  the  ground.  Presently  he  said  :  "  I  '11 
cable  the  money  over,  and  send  the  letter  on  next 
mail.  Strange  that  I  did  n't  think  of  cabling  yester- 
day.     However,  it 's  all  the  same  !  " 

So  saying  he  came  down  the  moor  into  the  town, 
and  sent  his  cable  ;  then  went  to  his  hotel  and  had 
dinner.     After  dinner  he  again  went  for  a  walk. 

12 


"AM 


An  Echo 

He  was  thinking  hard,  and  that  did  not  render  him 
less  interesting.  He  was  tall  and  muscular,  yet 
not  heavy,  with  a  lean  dark  face,  keen  steady  eyes, 
and  dignified  walk.  He  wore  a  black  soft-felt  hat 
and  a  red  silk  sash  which  just  peeped  from  beneath 
his  waistcoat  —  in  all,  striking  yet  not  bizarre,  and 
notably  of  gentleman-like  manner.  What  arrested 
attention  most,  however,  was  his  voice.  People 
who  heard  it  invariably  turned  to  look,  or  listened 
from  sheer  pleasure.  It  was  of  such  penetrating 
clearness  that  if  he  spoke  in  an  ordinary  tone  it 
carried  far.  Among  the  Indians  of  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company,  where  he  had  been  for  six  years  or 
more,  he  had  been  known  as  M a n-of-t he-gold- 
throat  ;  and  that  long  before  he  was  called  by  the 
negroes  on  his  father's  plantation  in  the  Southern 
States  "  Little  Marse  Gabriel,"  because  Gabriel's 
horn,  they  thought,  must  be  like  his  voice  —  "  only 
mo*  so ;  an'  dat  chile  was  bawn  to  ride  on  de 
Golden   Mule." 

You  would  not,  from  his  manner,  or  voice,  or 
dress,  have  called  him  an  American.  You  might 
have  said  he  was  a  gentleman  planter  from  Cuba, 
or  Java,  or  p'iji ;  or  a  successful  miner  from 
Central  America,  who  had  more  than  a  touch  of 
Spanish  blood  in  his  veins.      He  was  not  at  all  the 

13 


The  Liar 


type  from  over  sea  who  arc  in  evidence  at  Wild 
West  shows,  or  as  poets  from  a  Western  llion, 
ride  in  the  Row  with  sombrero,  cloak,  and  Mexican 
saddle.  Indeed,  a  certain  officer  of  Indian  infantry, 
who  had  once  picked  up  some  irregular  French  in 
Egypt,  and  at  dinner  made  remarks  on  Telford's 
personal  appearance  to  a  pretty  girl  beside  him,  was 
confused  when  Telford  looked  up  and  said  to  him 
in  admirable  FVench,  "1  'd  rather  not,  but  I  can't 
help  hearing  what  you  say  ;  and  1  think  it  only 
fair  to  tell  you  so.  These  grapes  are  good  :  shall 
I  pass  them  ?  Poole  made  my  clothes  and  Lincoln 
is  my  hatter.      Were  you  ever  in  Paris  ?  " 

The  slow  distinct  voice  came  floating  across  the 
little  table,  and  ladies  who  that  day  had  been 
reading  the  last  French  novel,  and  could  interpret 
every  word  and  tone,  smiled  slyly  at  each  other,  or 
held  themselves  still  to  hear  the  sequel ;  the  ill- 
bred  turned  round  and  stared;  the  parvenu  sitting 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  who  had  been  a  toreign 
buyer  of  some  London  firm,  chuckled  coarsely  and 
winked  at  the  waiter  ;  and  Baron,  the  Afrikander 
trader,  who  sat  next  to  Telford,  ordered  champagne 
on  the  strength  of  it.  The  bronzed,  weather-worn 
face  of  Telford  showed  imperturbable,  but  his  eyes 
were    struggling  with   a    strong   kind     of     humor. 

14 


An  Echo 

The  officer  flushed  to  the  hair,  accepted  the  grapes, 
smiled  foolishly,  and  acknowledged — swallowing 
the  reflection  on  his  accent  —  that  he  had  heen  in 
Paris.  Then  he  engaged  in  close  conversation 
with  the  young  ladv  beside  him,  who,  however, 
seemed  occupied  with  Telford.  This  quiet,  keen 
young  ladv,  Miss  Mildred  Margrave,  had  received 
an  impression,  not  of  the  kind  which  her  sex  con- 
fide to  each  other,  but  of  a  graver  quality.  She 
was  a  girl  of  sympathies  and  parts. 

The  event  increased  the  interest  and  respect  felt 
in  the  hotel  for  this  stranger.  That  he  knew 
French  was  not  strange.  He  had  been  well  edu- 
cated as  a  boy,  and  had  had  his  hour  with  the 
classics.  His  godmother,  who  had  been  in  the 
household  of  Prince  Joseph  Bonaparte,  taught  him 
French  from  the  time  he  could  lisp,  and,  what  was 
dangerous  in  his  father's  eyes,  filled  him  with  bits 
of  poetry  and  fine  language,  so  that  he  knew  Heine, 
Racine,  and  Beranger,  and  many  another.  But 
this  was  made  endurable  to  the  father  by  the  fact 
that,  by  nature,  the  boy  was  a  warrior  and  a  scape- 
grace, could  use  his  fists  as  well  as  his  tongue,  and 
posed  as  a  Napoleon  with  the  negro  children 
on  the  plantation.  He  was  leader  of  the  revels 
when  the  slaves  gathered    at   night  in  front  of  the 

»5 


)i 


The  Liar 

huts,  and  made  a  joy  of  captivity,  and  sang  hymns 
which  sounded  like  profane  music-hall  songs,  and 
songs  vvith  an  unction  now  lost  to  the  world,  even 
as  Shakespere's  fools  are  lost  —  that  gallant  company 
who  ran  a  thread  of  tragedy  through  all  their  jesting. 

Great  things  had  been  prophesied  for  this  youth 
in  the  days  when  he  sat  upon  an  empty  treacle 
barrel  with  a  long  willow  rod  in  his  hand,  a  cocked 
hat  on  his  head,  a  sword  at  his  side  —  a  real  sword 
once  belonging  to  a  little  Bonaparte —  and  fiddlers 
and  banjoists  beneath  him.  His  father  on  such 
occasions  called  him  Young  King  Cole. 

All  had  changed,  and  many  things  had  happened, 
as  we  shall  see.  But  one  thing  was  clear :  this 
was  no  wild  man  from  the  West.  He  had  claims 
to  be  considered,  and  he  was  considered.  People 
watched  him  as  he  went  down  over  the  esplanade 
and  into  quiet  streets.  The  little  occurrence  at  the 
dinner-table  had  set  him  upon  a  train  of  thought 
which  he  had  tried  to  avoid  for  many  years.  On 
principle  he  would  not  dwell  on  the  past :  there 
was  no  corrosion,  he  said  to  himself,  like  the 
memory  of  an  ugly  deed.  But  the  experiences  of 
the  last  few  days  had  tended  to  throw  him  into  the 
past,  and  for  once  he  gave  himself  up  to  it. 

Presently   there  came  to    him  the   sound  of   a 

i6 


[I  » 


i^ ■«,^„„ 


An  Echo 

banjo  —  not  an  unusual  thing  at  Herridon.  It  had 
its  mock  negro  minstrels,  whom,  hearing,  Telford 
was  anxious  to  offend.  This  banjo,  he  knew  at 
once,  was  touched  by  fingers  which  felt  them  as  if 
born  on  them  j  and  the  chords  were  such  as  are 
only  brought  forth  bv  those  who  have  learned  them 
to  melodies  of  the  South.  He  stopped  before  the 
house  and  '  lued  upon  the  fence.  He  heard  the 
voice  go  silvering  through  a  negro  hymn,  which 
was  among  the  first  he  had  ever  known.  He  felt 
himself  suddenly  shiver  —  a  thrill  of  nervous 
sympathy.  His  face  went  hot,  and  his  hands 
closed  on  the  palings  tightly.  He  stole  into  the 
garden  quictlv,  came  near  the  window,  and  stood 
still.  He  held  his  mouth  in  his  palm;  he  had  an 
inclination  to  cry  out. 

"  Good  God,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "  to  hear  that 
off  here  after  all  these  years  !  "  Suddenly  the  voice 
stopped.  There  was  a  murmur  within.  It  came  to 
him  indistinctly.  "  She  has  forgotten  the  rest,"  he 
said.      Instantly,  and  almost  involuntarily,  he  sang  : 

**  Look  up  and  look  aroun' 

Fro  you'  burden  on  de  groun'." 

Then  came  the  sequel  as  we  described,  and   his 
low    chanting   of  the   negro   wood-cutters*   chant. 
a  17 


^ 


The  Liar 

He  knew  that  any  who  answered  it  must  have  lived 
the  life  he  once  lived  in  Louisiana  ;  for  he  had 
never  heard  it  since  he  had  left  there,  nor  any  there 
hum  it  except  those  who  knew  the  negroes  well. 
Of  an  evening,  in  the  hot,  placid  South,  he  had 
listened  to  it  come  floating  over  the  sugar-cane  and 
through  the  brake,  and  go  creeping  weirdly  under 
the  magnolia  trees.  He  waited,  hoping,  almost 
wildly  — he  knew  it  was  a  wild  hope  — that  there 
would  be  a  reply.  There  was  none.  But  presently 
there  came  to  him  the  Baron's  crude,  honest  singing  : 

**  For  you  Ml  take  the  high  road,  and  I  Ml  take  the  low  road, 
And  I  '11  be  in  Scotland  before  you  : 
But  I  and  my  true  love  will  never  meet  again 
On  the  bonnie  bonnie  banks  o'  Ben  Lomond." 


Telford  drew  in  his  breath  sharply,  caught  his 
moustache  between  his  teeth  savagely  for  a  minute, 
then  let  it  go  with  a  run  of  ironical  laughter.  He 
looked  round  him.  He  saw  in  the  road  two  or 
three  people  who  had  been  attracted  by  the  music. 
They  seemed  so  curious  merely,  so  apathetic  — 
his  feelings  were  playing  at  full  tide.  To  him 
they  were  the  idle,  intrusive  spectators  of  his 
trouble.  All  else  was  dark  about  him,  save  where, 
on  the  hill,  the  lights  of  the  Tem.pe  Hotel  showed, 

i8 


An  Echo 

and  a  man  and  woman,  his  arm  round  her,  could 
be  seen  pacing  among  the  trees.  Telford  turned 
away  from  this,  ground  his  heel  into  the  turf,  and 
said  :  "  I  wish  I  could  see  who  she  is  !  Her  voice  ? 
—  it's  impossible."  He  edged  close  to  the  win- 
dow, where  a  light  showed  at  the  edge  of  the 
curtains.      Suddenly  he  pulled  up. 

"  No,  whoever    she    is   I    shall    know  in  time. 
Things    come    round.       It 's    almost   uncanny    as 

It    stands ;    but    then,    it    was    uncanny it     has 

all  been  so,  since  the  start."  He  turned  to  the 
window  again,  raised  his  hat  to  it,  walked  quickly 
out  into  the  road,  and  made  his  way  to  the 
View  Hotel.  As  he  came  upon  the  verandah 
Mildred  Margrave  passed  him.  He  saw  the  shy 
look  of  interest  in  her  face,  and  with  simple 
courtesy  he  raised  his  hat.  She  bowed  and  went 
on.  He  turned  and  looked  after,  then,  shaking 
his  head  as  if  to  dismiss  an  unreasonable  thought, 
entered,  and  went  to  his  room. 

About  this  time  the  party  at  Hagar's  rooms  was 
breaking  up.  There  had  been  more  singing  by 
Mrs.  Detlor.  She  ransacked  her  memory  for 
half-remembered  melodies  —  whimsical,  arcadian, 
sad,  and  Hagar  sat  watching  her,  outwardly  quiet 
and  appreciative,  inwardly  under  an  influence  like 

19 


m 


The  Liar 

none  he  had  ever  felt  before.      When  his  guests 
were  ready  he  went  with  them  to  their  hotel.      He 
saw  that  Mrs.  Detlor  shrank  from  the  attendance 
of   The   Prince,   who   insisted    on   talking   of  the 
"stranger  in    the  green-room."      When    they  ar- 
rived at  the  hotel  he  managed,  simply  enough,  to 
send  the   lad  on   some  mission    for   iMrs.   Detlor, 
which,  he  was  determined,  should  be  permanent  so 
far  as  that  evening  was  concerned.      He  was  soon 
walking  alone   with   her  on  the  terrace.      He  did 
not  force  the   conversation,  nor  try  to  lead   it   to 
the    event    of   the    evening,  which,    he    felt,    was 
more  important   than    others   guessed.      He   knew 
also  that   she  did  not   care  to  talk  just   then.      He 
had   never   had   any  difficulty  in   conversation  with 
her  —  they  had   a  singular  rapport.      He   had  trav- 
elled  much,    seen   more,    remembered    evervthin^r 
was    shy    to    austerity    with   people    who   did    not 
interest   him,  spontaneous  with   those  that   did,  and 
yet    was   never  —  save    to   serve  a   necessary   pur- 
pose —  hail-fellow  with  anv  one.      He   knew   that 
he   could   he    perfectly   natural    with   this    woman, 
say    anything    that   became   a    man.      He   was   an 
artist  without  affectations,  a  diplomatic   man   hav- 
ing   great    enthusiasms  and  some  outer   cynicism. 
He   had    started  life   terriblv   in  earnest   before  the 

20 


An  Echo 

world.  He  had  changed  all  that.  I„  society  he 
was  a  nervous  organism  gone  cold,  a  deliberate, 
self-contained  man.  But  in  so  much  as  he  was 
chastened  of  enthusiasms  outwardly,  he  was  boy- 
ishly earnest  inwardly. 

He  was  telling  Airs.  Detlor  of  some  incident  he 
had  seen  in  South  Africa  when  sketching  there 
for  a  London  weekly  ;  telling  it  graphically,  incis- 
ively —  he  was  not  fluent;  he  etched  in  "speech, 
he  did  not  paint.  She  looked  up  at  him  once  or 
twice,  as  if  some  thought  was  running  parallel  with 
his  storv.  He  caught  the  look.  He  had  just 
come  to  the  close  of  his  narratiN  e.  Presently  she 
put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his  arm. 

"You  have  great  tact,"  she  said,  "and  I  am 
grateful." 

"I  will  not  question  your  judgment,"  he  replied 
smiling.  "I  am  glad  that  you  think  so,  and 
humbled  too." 

'^Whv  humbled?"  she  laughed  softly.  cc  j 
can't  imagine  that." 

"There  are  good  opinions  which  make  us 
vain,  others  which  make  us  anxious  to  live  up  to 
them,  while  we  are  afraid  we  can't." 

"  Few  men  know  that  kind  of  fear.  You  are 
a  vain  race." 

21 


The  Liar 


"  You  know  best.  Men  show  certain  traits  to 
women  most." 

"  That  is  true.  Of  the  most  real  things  they 
seldom  speak  to  each  other ;  but  to  women  they 
often  speak  freely,  and  it  makes  one  shudder  — 
till  one  knows  the  world,  and  gets  used  to  it." 

"  Why  shudder  ?  "  He  guessed  the  answer, 
but  he  wanted,  not  from  mere  curiosity,  to  hear 
her  say  it. 

"The  business  of  life  they  take  seriously: 
money,  positioji  —  chiefly  money.  Life  itself — 
home,  happiness,  the  affections,  friendship  —  is  an 
incident,  a  thing  to  juggle  with." 

"  I  do  not  know  you  in  this  satirical  mood,"  he 
answered.  "  1  need  time  to  get  used  to  it  before 
I  can  reply." 

"  I  surprise  you  ?  People  do  not  expect  me 
ever  to  be  either  serious  or  —  or  satirical :  only 
look  to  me  to  be  amiable  and  merr\  —  ^  Your  only 
jig-maker,'  as  Hamlet  said  —  a  sprightly  Colum- 
bine.    Am  1  rhetorical  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  you  are  really  satirical,  and 
please  don't  think  me  impertinent  if  I  say  I  do  not 
like  your  irony.  The  other  character  suits  you  ; 
for,  by  nature,  you  are,  are  you  not,  both  merry 
and  amiable  ?     The  rest " 

22 


fi  i 


An  Fxho 

" '  7'hc  rest  is  silence '  .  .  .  I  can  remember 
when  mere  living  was  delighttul.  I  didn't  envy 
the  birds.  That  sounds  sentimental  to  a  man, 
does  n't  it  ?  But  then  that  is  the  way  a  happy 
girl  —  a  child  —  teels.  I  do  not  envv  the  birds 
now,  though,  I  suppose,  it  is  silly  for  a  worldly 
woman  to  talk  so. 

"  Whom,  then,  do  you  envy  ?  " 

There  was  a  warm  frank  light  in  her  eyes.  "  I 
envy  the  girl  I  was  then." 

He  looked  down  at  her.  She  was  turning  a 
ring  about  on  her  finger  abstractedly.  He  hesi- 
tated to  reply.  He  was  afraid  that  he  might  say 
something  to  press  a  confidence,  for  which  she 
would  be  sorry  afterwards.  She  guessed  what  was 
passing  in  his  mind. 

She  reached  out  as  if  to  touch  his  arm  again,  but 
did  not,  and  said:  "1  am  placing  vou  in  an 
awkward  position.  Pardon  me.  It  seemed  to  mc 
for  a  moment  that  we  were  old  friends  —  old  and 
candid   friends.*' 

"  I  wish  to  be  an  old  and  candid  friend,"  he 
replied  firmly.     "  I  honor  vour  frankness." 

"  I  know  that,"  she  added  hastily.  "  One  is 
^afe — with  some  men." 

"  Not  with  a  woman  ?  " 

23 


!  I 


tf    l\ 


«*i«iii<iTW!)iiiim— '■.  - 


The  Liar 


■> 

h 


"No  woman  is  safe  in  any  confidence  to  any 
other  woman.  All  women  are  more  or  less  bad 
at  heart." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  as  you  say  it." 

"  Of  course  you  do  not  —  as  I  say  it;  but  you 
know  what  I  mean.  Women  are  creatures  of 
impulse,  except  those  who  live  mechanically  and 
have  lost  everything.  They  become  like  priests 
then." 

"  Like  some  priests.  Yet,  with  all  respect,  it 
is  not  a  confessional  I  would  choose,  except  the 
woman  was  my  mother." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  she 
abruptly  said  :  ''  I  know  you  wish  to  speak  of  that 
incident  and  you  hesitate.  You  need  not.  Yet 
this  is  all  I  can  tell  you  :  whoever  the  man  was  he 
came  from  Tellaire,  the   place  where  I  was  born." 

She  paused.  He  did  not  look,  but  he  felt  that  she 
was  moved.  He  was  curious  as  to  human  emo- 
tions, but  not  where  this  woman  was  concerned. 

"  There  were  a  few  notes  in  that  woodcutters' 
chant  which  were  added  to  the  traditional  form  by 
•-       vhom  I  knew,"  she  continued. 

^      oil  did  not  recognize  the  voice  ?  " 
1     innot  tell.     One  fancies  things,  and  it  was 
all  twelve  years  ago." 

24 


i 


f 


An  Echo 

"It  was  all  twelve  years  ago,"  he  repeated 
musingly  after  her.  He  was  eager  to  know,  yet 
he  would  not  ask. 

"  You  are  a  clever  artist,"  she  said  presently. 
"You  want  a  subject  for  a  picture.  You  have 
told  me  so.  You  are  ambitious.  If  you  were 
a  dramatist  I  would  give  you  three  acts  of  a 
play  —  the  fourth  is  yet  to  come:  but  you  shall 
have  a  scene  to  paint,  if  you  think  it  strong 
enough." 

His  eyes  flashed.  The  artist's  instinct  was  alive. 
In  the  eyes  of  the  woman  was  a  fire  which  sent  a 
glow  over  all  her  features.  In  herself  she  was  an 
inspiration  to  him,  but  he  had  not  told  her  that. 
"Oh,  yes,"  was  his  reply,  "I  want  it,  if  I  may 
paint  you  in  the  scene." 

"You  may  paint  me  in  the  scene,"  she  said 
quietly.  Then,  as  if  it  suddenly  came  to  her  that 
she  would  be  giving  a  secret  into  this  man's  hands, 
she  added,  "  That  is,  if  you  want  me  for  a  model 
merely." 

"Mrs.  Detlor,"  he  said,  "you  may  trust  me  on 
my  honor." 

She  looked  at  him,  not  searchingly,  but  with  a 
clear,  hone^st  gaze  such  as  one  sees  oftenest  in  the 
eyes  of  children,  —  yet  she  had  seen  the  duplicities 

as 


■n 


V 

it. 

M      li 

":-        iii 
U 


li! 


The  Liar 


of  life  backwards  —  and  said  calmly,  "  Yes,  I  can 
trust  you." 

"  An  artist's  subject  ought  to  be  sacred  to  him," 
he  said.  "  It  becomes  himself,  and  then  it  is  n't 
hard  —  to  be  silent." 

They  walked  for  a  few  moments,  sayintr  nothing. 

1  he  terrace  was   filling  with   people,  so  they  went 

upon    the  verandah   and  sat    down.      There  were 

no   chairs   near    them.      They  were    quite    at    the 

end. 

"  Please  light  a  cigar,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
laugh.  "We  must  not  look  serious.  Assume 
your  light  comedy  manner  as  you  listen,  and  I  will 
wear  the  true  Columbine  expression.  We  are 
under  the  eyes  of  the  curious." 

"  Not  too  much  light  comedy  for  me,"  he  said. 
"  I  shall  look  forbidding,  lest  your  admirers  bom- 
bard us." 

They  were  quiet  again. 

"This  is  the  story,"  she  said  at  last,  folding  her 
hands  before  her.  —  "  No,  no,"  she  added  hastily, 
"  I  will  not  tell  you  the  story,  I  will  try  and  pic- 
ture one  scene.  And  when  I  haye  finished,  tell 
me  if  you  don't  think  I  haye  a  capital  imagination." 
She  drew  herself  up  with  a  little  gesture  of  mock- 
ery.    "  It  is  comedy,  you  know  :  — 

26 


An  Fxho 


"  Her  name  was  Marion  Conijuest.  She  was 
beautiful  —  thev  said  that  of  her  then  — and  voung  ; 
only  sixteen.  She  had  been  very  happv,  for  a  man 
said  that  he  loved  her,  and  she  wore  his  ring  on  her 
linger.  One  day,  while  she  was  visiting  at  a  place 
far  from  her  home,  she  was  happier  than  usual. 
She  wished  to  be  by  herself  to  wonder  how  it  was 
that  one  could  be  so  happy.  You  see,  she  was 
voung,  and  did  not  think  often ;  she  only  lived. 
She  took  a  horse  and  rode  far  awav  into  the  woods. 
She  came  near  a  cottage  among  the  trees.  She 
got  ofF  her  horse  and  led  it.  Under  a  tree  she 
saw  a  man  and  a  woman.  The  man's  arm  was 
round  the  woman.  A  child  four  or  five  years  old 
was  playing  at  their  feet — at  the  feet  of  its  father 
and  mother  !  .  .  .  The  girl  came  forward  and  faced 
the  man  —  the  man  she  had  sworn  to  marry.  As 
I  said,  his  ring  was  on  her  finger." 

She  paused.  People  were  passing  near,  and  she 
smiled  and  bowed  once  or  twice  ;  but  Hagar  saw 
that  the  fire  in  her  eyes  had  deepened. 

"  Is  it  strong  enough  for  your  picture  ?  "  she 
said  quietly. 

"  It  is  as  strong  as  it  is  painful.  Yet  there  is 
beauty  in  it  too :   for  I  see  the  girl's  face." 

"  You  see  much   in  her  face,  of  course,  for  you 

27 


<  *i 


The  Liar 

look  at  it  as  ail  artist :  you  sec  shame,  indignation, 
bitterness  —  what  else  ?  " 

"  I  see  that  moment  of  awe  when  the  girl  sud- 
denly became  a  woman  -  as  the  serious  day  breaks 
all  at  once  through  the  haze  of  morning." 

"  I  know  you  can  paint  the  picture,"  she  said  ; 
"  but  you  have  no  model  for  the  girl.  How  shall 
you  imagine  her  ?  " 

"  I  said  that  I  would  paint  you  in  the  scene  " 
he  answered  slowly. 

^'  But  I  am  not  young  as  she  was,  am  not  —  so 
good  to  look  at." 

"  I  said  that  I  saw  beauty  in  the  girl's  face  :  I 
can  only  see  it  through  yours." 

Her  hands  clasped  tightly  before  her.  Her  eyes 
turned  full  on  him  for  an  instant,  then  looked 
away  into  the  dusk.  There  was  silence  for  a  long 
time  now.  His  cigar  burned  brightly.  People 
kept  passing  and  repassing  on  the  terrace  below 
them.     Their  serious  silence  was  noticeable. 

"  A  penny  for  your  thou^rhts,"  she  said  gaily, 
yet  with  a  kind  of  wistfulness. 

"  You  would  be  thrown  iway  at  the  price." 

These  were  things  that  she  longed  yet  dreaded 
to  hear.  She  was  not  free  (at  least  she  dreaded 
so)  to  listen  to  such  words. 

28 


Ti 


An  Echo 

"I  am   sorry    for   that  girl,  God   knows!"   he 

added. 

"  She  lived  to  be  always  sorry  tor  herself.  She 
was  selfish.  She  could  have  thrived  on  happiness. 
She  did  not  need  suftering.  She  has  been  merry, 
gay,  but  never  happy." 

"  The  sequel  was  sad  ?  '* 

"Terribly  sad." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  — the  scene  ?  " 

"  I  will,  but  not  to-night."  She  drew  her  hands 
across  her  eyes  and  forehead.  "  You  are  not 
asking  merely  as  the  artist  now  ?  "  She  knew  the 
answer,  but  she  wanted  to  hear  it. 

"  A  man  who  is  an  artist  asks  •,  and  he  wishes 
to  be  a  friend  to  that  woman,  to  do  her  any  service 

possible." 

"Who  can  tell  when  she  might  need  be- 
friending ?  " 

He  would  not  question  further — she  had  said 
all  she  could,  until    she    knew    who    the    stranger 

was. 

"  I  must  go  in,"  she  said;   "  it  is  late." 

"Tell  me  one  thing.      I  want  it   for  my    picture 

—  as  a  kev  to  the  mind  of  th  j  girl.      What  did  she 

say  at  that  painful  meeting  in   the  woods  —  to  the 

man?" 


29 


1 '- 1 


The  Liar 

Mrs.  Detlor  looked  at  him  as  if  she  vi'ould  read 
him  through  and  through.  Presently  she  drew  a 
ring  from  her  finger  slowly  and  gave  it  to  him, 
smiling  bitterly. 

"  Read  inside.      That  is  what  she  said." 
By  the  burning  end  of  his  cigar  he  read:   "  Vou 
told  a  Her 


At  another  hotel  a  man  sat  in  a  window,  look- 
ing out  on  the  esplanade.     He  spoke  aloud. 

"'You  told  a  lie,'  was  all  she  said;  and  as 
God  's  in  heaven  I  'vc  never  forgotten  I  was  a  liar 
from  that  dav  to  this." 


30 


CHAPTbR    II 


THE    MEETING 


Or^HE  next  morning  George  Hagar  was  early 
-*•  at  the  Pump  Room.  He  found  it  amusing 
to  watch  the  crowds  coming  and  going  —  earnest 
invalids,  and  that  most  numerous  body  of  middle- 
aged,  middle-class  people  who  have  no  particular 
reason  for  drinking  the  waters,  and  whose  only 
regimen  is  getting  even  with  their  appetites.  He 
could  pick  out  every  order  at  a  glance,  he  did  not 
need  to  wait  until  he  saw  the  tumblers  at  their 
lips.  Now  and  then  a  dashing  girl  came  gliding 
in,  and,  though  the  draught  was  noxious  to  her, 
drank  the  stuff  off  with  a  neutral  look  and  well- 
bred  indifference  to  the  distress  ibout  her.  Or, 
in  strode  the  private  secretary  of  some  distinguished 
being  in  London,  S.  W.  He  invariably  carried 
his  glass  to  the  door,  drank  it  off'  in  languid  sips 
as  he  leaned  indolently  against  the  masonry,  and 
capped  the    event    by   purchasing    a   rose   for    his 

31 


m 


1  k  I 


The  Liar 

button-hole;  so  making  a  ceremony,  which 
smacked  of  federating  the  world  at  a  common 
public  drinking  trough,  into  a  little  fete.  Or, 
there  were  the  good  priests  from  a  turbulent  lar- 
ruping island,  who,  with  cheeks  blushing  with 
health  and  plump  waistcoat,  came  ambling,  smil- 
ing, to  their  thirty  ounces  of  noisome  liquor. 
Then,  there  was  Baron,  the  bronzed,  idling,  com- 
fortable trader  from  Zanzibar,  who,  after  fifteen 
years  of  hide-and-seek  with  fever  and  Arabs  and 
sudden  death  —  wherewith  was  all  manner  of 
accident,  and  sundry  profane  dealings  not  intended 
for  the  Times,  or  Exeter  Hall,  comes  back  to 
sojourn  in  quiet  "  Christom  "  places,  a  lamb  in 
temper,  a  lion  at  heart,  an  honest  soul  who  minds 
his  own  business,  is  enenw  to  none  but  the 
malicious,  and  lives  in  daily  wonder  that  the  wine 
he  drank  the  night  before  gets  into  trouble  with 
the  waters  drunk  in  the  morning.  And  the  days, 
weeks,  and  months  go  on,  but  Haron  remains, 
having  seen  population  after  population  of  water- 
drinkers  come  and  go.  He  was  there  years  ago ; 
he  is  there  still,  coming  every  year  :  and  he  does 
not  know  that  George  Hagar  has  hung  him  at 
Durlington  House  more  than  once,  and  he  re- 
members  very    well   the    pretty    girl    he    did    not 

32 


The  Meeting 

marrv,    who    also,    on    one    occasion,   joined    the 
aristocratic  company  "  on  the  Hne." 

This  young  and  pretty  girl  —  Miss  Mildred 
Margrave  —  came  and  went  this  morning  -,  and  a 
peculiar,  meditative  look  on  her  face,  suggesting 
some  recent  experience,  caused  the  artist  to  trans- 
fer her  to  his  note-book.  Her  step  was  sprightly, 
her  face  warm  and  cheerful  in  hue,  her  figure  ex- 
cellent, her  walk  the  most  admirable  thing  about 
her  —  swaying,  graceful,  lissome  —  like  perfect 
dancing :  with  the  whole  body.  Her  walk  was 
immediately  merged  into  somebody  else's —  merged 
melodiously,  if  one  may  say  so.  A  man  came 
from  the  pump-room  looking  after  the  girl,  and 
Hagar  remarked  a  similar  swaying  impulsion  in 
the  walk  of  both.  He  walked  as  far  as  the  gate 
of  the  pump-room,  then  sauntered  back,  unfolded 
a  newspaper,  closed  it  up  again,  lit  a  cigar,  and, 
like  Hagar,  stood  watching  the  crowd  abstractedly. 
He  was  an  outstanding  figure.  Ladies,  as  they 
waited,  occasionally  looked  at  him  through  their 
glasses,  and  the  Duchess  of  Brevoort  thought  he 
would  make  a  picturesque  figure  for  a  reception  — 
she  was  not  less  sure  because  his  manner  was 
neither  savage  nor  suburban.  George  Hagar  was 
known  to  some  people  as  "  the  fellow  who  looks 

3  Zi 


^^i^^^b. 


.'■^udaa^^u 


mmm 


The  Liar 

back  of  you;  "  Mark  Telford  might  have  been 
spoken  of  as  "  the  man  who  looks  through  you  ;  " 
for,  when  he  did  glance  at  a  man  or  woman,  it 
was  with  keen  directness,  affecting  the  person 
looked  at  like  a  flash  of  light  to  the  eye.  It  is 
easy  to  write  such  things,  not  so  easy  to  \erify 
them ;  but  any  one  that  has  seen  the  sleuthlike 
eyes  of  men  accustomed  to  dealing  with  danger  in 
the  shape  of  wild  beasts,  or  treacherous  tribes,  or 
still  more  treacherous  companions,  and  whose 
lives  depend  upon  their  feeling  for  peril,  and  their 
unerring  vigilance  —  can  see  what  George  Hagar 
saw  in  Mark  Telford's  looks. 

Telford's  glance  went  round  the  crowd,  appear- 
ing to  rest  for  an  instant  on  everv  person,  and  for 
a  longer  time  on  Hagar.  The  eves  of  the  two 
men  met.  Both  were  immediately  puzzled,  for 
each  had  a  sensation  of  some  subterranean  origin. 
Telford  immediately  afterwards  passed  out  of  the 
gate  and  went  towards  the  St.  Cloud  Gardens, 
where  the  band  wa;  pla\ing.  For  a  time  Hagar 
did  not  stir,  but  idled  with  his  pencil  and  note- 
book. Suddenly  he  started,  and  hurried  out  in 
the  direction  Telford  had  gone. 

"  I  was  an  ass,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  not  to 
think  of  that  at   first. " 

34 


M 


I 


The  Meeting 

He  entered  tlie  St.  Cloud  Gardens  and  walked 
round  the  promenade  a  few  times,  but  without 
finding  him.  Presently,  however,  Alpheus  Rich- 
mond,  whose  beautiful  and  brilliant  waistcoat,  and 
brass  buttons  with  monogram  adorned,  showed  ad- 
vantageously in  the  morning  sunshine,  said  to  him  : 
"  1  say,  Hagar,  who  's  that  chap  up  there  filling  the 
door  of  the  summer-house  ?      Lord,  rather!  " 

It  was  Telford.  Hagar  wished  for  the  slightest 
pretext  to  go  up  the  unfrequented  side  path  and 
speak  to  him  -,  but  his  mind  was  too  excited  to 
do  the  thing  naturally  without  a  stout  pretext. 
Besides,  though  he  admired  the  man's  proportions, 
and  his  uses  from  an  artistic  standpoint,  he  did 
not  like  him  personally,  and  he  said  that  he  never 
could.  He  had  instinctive  likes  and  dislikes. 
What  had  startled  him  at  the  pump-room,  and 
had  made  him  come  to  the  gardens,  was  the  con- 
viction that  this  was  the  man  to  play  the  part  in 
the  scene  which,  described  by  Mrs.  Detlor,  had 
been  arraiii^inLr  itself  in  a  hundred  wavs  in  his 
brain  during  the  night,  —  the  central  figures  always 
the  same,  the  details,  light,  tone,  coloring,  expres- 
sion, fusing,  resolving.  Then  came  another  and 
still  more  significant  thought.  On  this  he  had 
acted. 

35 


l!,^' 


The  Liar 


When  he  had  got  rid  of  Richmond,  who  begged 
that  he  would  teach  him  how  to  arrange  a  tie  as 
he  did,  —  for  which  an  hour  was  appointed,  — 
he  determined,  at  all  hazards,  to  speak.  He  had 
a  cigar  in  his  pocket,  and  though  to  smoke  in  the 
morning  was  pain  and  grief  to  him,  he  determined 
to  ask  for  a  match  -,  and  started.  He  was  stopped 
by  Baron,  whose  thoughts  being  much  with  the 
little  vices  of  man,  anticipated  his  wishes,  and 
offered  him  a  light.  In  despair,  Hagar  took  it, 
and  asked  if  he  chanced  to  know  who  the  stranger 
was.  Baron  did  know,  assuring  Hagar  that  he 
sat  on  the  gentleman's  right  at  the  same  table 
in  his  hotel,  and  was  qualified  to  introduce  him. 
Before  they  started  he  told  the  artist  of  the  occur- 
rence of  the  evening  before,  and  further  assured  him 
of  the  graces  of  iMiss  Mildred  Margrave.  "  A 
pearl,"  he  said,  "  not  to  be  reckoned  by  loads  of 
ivory,  nor  jolly  bricks  of  gold,  nor  caravans  of 
Arab  steeds,  nor  —  come  and  have  dinner  with  me 
to-night,  and  you  shall  see.  There,  what  do  you 
say  ?  " 

Hagar,  who  loved  the  man's  unique  and  spon- 
taneous character,  as  only  an  artist  can  love  a 
subject  in  which  he  sees  royal  possibilities,  con- 
sented gladly,  and   dropped  a  cordial   hand  on  the 

36 


i 


J 


t 


The  Meeting 

other^s  shoulder.  The  hand  was  dragged  down 
and  wrenched  back  and  forth  with  a  sturdy  clasp, 
in  time  to  a  roll  of  round  unctuous  laughter.  Then 
Baron  took  him  up  hurriedly,  and  introduced  him 
to  Telford,  with  the  words:  "You  two  ought 
to  know  each  other.  Telford,  traveller,  officer 
of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  et  cetera;  Hagar, 
artist,  good  fellow,  et  cetera." 

Then  he  drew  back  and  smiled  as  the  two  men, 
not  shaking  hands  as  he  expected,  bowed,  and 
said  they  were  happy  to  meet.  The  talk  began 
with  the  remark  by  Hagar  on  the  panorama  below 
them,  "  that  the  thing  was  amusing  if  not  seen 
too  often;  but  the  eternal  paddling  round  the 
band-stand  was  too  much  like  marionettes." 

"  You  prefer  a  Punch  and  Judy  to  marionettes  ?  " 

asked  Telford. 

"  Yes,  you  get  a  human  element  in  a  Punch 
and  Judy  tragedy.  Besides,  it  has  surprises, 
according  to  the  idiosyncracy  of  the  man  in  the 
green  room.."  He  smiled  immediately,  remem- 
bering that  his  last  words  plagiarized  Mr.  Alpheus 
Richmond. 

"  I  never  miss  a  Punch  and  Judy  if  I  *m  near 
it,"  said  Telford.  "  I  enjoy  the  sardonic  humor 
with  which  Punch    hustles  off   his  victims.     His 

37 


'  /J 


'4 


u 


The  Liar 


1  . 


light-heartedncss  when  doing  bloody  deeds   is  the 
true  temper." 

"  That  is,  if  it   must  be   done,  to  do  it  with    a 
grin  is —  " 

"  Is  the  most  absolute  tragedy." 

Hagar  was  astonished,  for  even  the  trader's 
information  that  Telford  spoke  excellent  French 
and  had  certain!-  b^'  -  a  deal  on  red  carpet  in  his 
time,  did  not  prepare  him  for  the  sharply-incisive 
words  just  uttered.  Y..  it  was  not  incongruous 
with  Telford's  appearance  —  not  even  with  the 
red  sash  peeping  at  the  edge  of  his  waistcoat. 

They  came  down  among  the  promenaders,  and 
Baron  being  accosted  by  some  one,  he  left  the  two 
together,  exacting  anew  the  promise  from  Hagar 
regarding  dinner. 

Presently  Hagar  looked  up,  and  said  abruptly  : 
"You  were  singing  outside  my  window  last 
night." 

Telford's  face  was  turned  away  from  him  when 
he  began.  It  came  slowly  towards  him.  The 
eyes  closed  steadily  with  his:  there  was  no  excite- 
ment, only  cold  alertness. 

"  Indeed  ?     What  was  I  singing  ?  " 
"  For  one  thing,  the  chant  of  the  negro  wood- 
cutters of  Louisiana." 

38 


J 


The  Meeting 

"  What  part  of  Louisiana  ?  " 
"The  county  of   I'cUavie  chiefly." 
Telford   drew  a   U)ng   breath,   as    though  some 
suspense  was  over,  and  then  said  :   "  How  did   you 
know  it  was  I  ?  " 

"  I  could  scarcely  tell  you.  I  got  the  impres- 
sion —  besides,  you  are  the  only  man  I  've  seen  in 
Herridon  who  looks  likely  to  know  it  and  the  song 
which  you  prompted." 

"Do  I  look  like  a  Southerner  —  still?  You 
sec   1  've  been   in   an   arctic   country   five  years." 

"  It  is  not  quite  that.  I  confess  I  cannot  ex- 
plain   it." 

"  I  hope  you  did  not  think  the  thing  too  boorish 
to  be  pardoned.  On  the  face  of  it,  it  was  rude  to 
yoQ  —  and  the  lady  also." 

"  The  circumstance  —  the  coincidence  —  was  so 
unusual  that  I  did  not  stop  to  think  of  manners." 

"The  coincidence  —  what  coincidence?"  said 
Telford,  watching  intently. 

But  Hagar  had  himself  well  in  hand.  He 
showed  nothing  of  his  suspicions.  "  That  you 
should  be  there  listening,  and  that  the  song  should 
be  one  which  no  two  people,  meeting  casually, 
were  likely  to  know." 

"  We  did  not  meet,"  said  Telford  drily. 

39 


"I 


»**»*« 


il 


The  Liar 

They  watched  the  crowd  for  a  minute.  Pres- 
ently he  added  :  u  May  I  ask  the  name  of  the 
lady  who  was  singing  ?  " 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  then  :  "  Certainly : 
Mrs,  Fairfax   Detlor." 

Though   Telford    did    not    stir    a    muscle,  the 
bronze   of  his    face   went  grayish,  and   he   looked 
straight  before  him  without  speaking.     At  last  he 
said  in  a  clear,  steady  voice  :   "  I   knew  her  once 
I  think." 

"  I  guessed  so." 

"  Indeed  ?  — May  I  ask   if  Mrs.  Detlor  recog- 
nized  my  voice  ?  " 

That  I  do  not  know ;  but  the  chances  are  she 
did  not,  if  you  failed  to  recognize  hers." 

There  was  an  almost  malicious  desire  on  Hagar's 
part  to  play  upon  this  man-— this  scoundrel,  as 
he  believed  him  to  be— and  make  him  wince 
still  more.  A  score  of  things  to  say  or  do 
flashed  through  his  mind ;  but  he  gave  them  up 
instantly,  remembering  that  it  was  his  duty  to  con- 
sider Mrs.  Detlor  before  all.  But  he  did  say  :  "  If 
you  were  old  friends,  you  will  wish  to  meet  her 
of 


course. 


"  Yes.     I    have  not   seen    her   in    many  years. 
Where  is  she  staying  ?  " 


40 


The  Meeting 

«  At  the  Tempe  Hotel.  I  do  not  know  whether 
you  intend  to  call,  but  I  would  suggest  your  not 
doing  so  to-day,  —  that  is,  if  you  wish  to  see  her 
and  not  merely  leave  your  card, — because  she  has 
an  engagement  this  morning,  and  this  afternoon 
she  is  going  on   an  excursion." 

"  Thank  you  for  the  generous  information." 
There  was  cool  irony  in  the  tone.  "You  are 
tolerably  well  posted  as  to  Mrs.  Detlor's  move- 
ments." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  was  the  equally  cool  reply.  "  In 
this  case,  I  happen  to  know ;  because  Mrs.  Detlor 
sits  for  a  picture  at  my  studio  this  morning,  and 
I  am  one  of  the  party  for  the  excursion." 

"Just  so.  Then  will  you  please  say  nothing 
to  Mrs.  Detlor  about  having  met  me  ?  I  should 
prefer  surprising  her." 

"I  'm  afraid  I  can  make  no  promise:  the  reason 
is  not  sufficient.  Surprises,  as  you  remarked 
about  Punch  and  Judy,  are  amusing,  but  they 
may  also  be  tragical." 

Telford  flashed  a  dark  inquiring  look  at  his 
companion,  and  then  said  :  "  Excuse  me,  I  did  not 
say  that,  though  it  was  said.  However,  it  is  no 
matter.  We  meet  at  dinner,  I  suppose,  this  even- 
ing.    Till  then  !  " 

41 


The  Liar 

He  raised  his  hat  with  a  slight,  sweeping  mo- 
tion,—  a  little  mocking  exeess  in  the  courtesy  — 
and  walked  away. 

As  he  went,  Hagar  said  after  him  between  his 
teeth  :  "  Hv  Heaven,  you  are  that  juan  '  " 

These  two  hated  each  other  at  this  moment, 
and  they  were  men  of  might  after  their  kind. 
The  hatred  of  the  better  man  was  the  greater. 
Nor  from  a  sense  of  personal  wrong,  but  — 

Three  hours  later  Hagar  w^as  hard  at  work  in 
his  studio.  Only  those  who  knew  him  intimately 
could  understand  him  in  his  present  mood.  His 
pale,  brooding,  yet  masculine  face  was  flushed  : 
the  blue  of  his  eyes  was  almost  black  ;  his  hair, 
usually  in  a  Roman  regularity  about  his  strong 
brow,  was  disorderly.  He  did  not  know  the 
passage  of  time ;  he  had  had  no  breakfast ;  he  had 
read  none  of  his  letters,  —  they  lay  in  a  little  heap 
on  his  mantelpiece,  —  he  was  sketching  upon  the 
canvas  the  scene  which  had  possessed  him  for  the 
past  ten  or  eleven  hours.  An  idea  was  being 
born,  and  it  was  giving  him  the  distress  of  bring- 
ing forth.  Paper  after  paper  he  had  thrown  away, 
but,  at  last,  he  had  shaped  the  idea  to  please  his 
severe  critical  Instinct,  and  was  now  sketching  in 
the   expression  of  the  girl's   face.      His   brain  was 

42 


' 


The  Meeting 

hot,  his  face  looked  tired  ;  hut  his  hand  was  steady, 
accurate,  and  cool  — a  shapely  hand  which  the 
sun  never  browned,  and  he  was  a  man  who  loved 
the  sun. 

He  drew  hack  at  last.  "Yes;  that's  it,"  he 
said;  "it's  right,  right.  His  face  shall  come  in 
later.      But  the  heart  of  the  thing  is  there." 

The  last  sentence  was  spoken  in  a  louder  tone, 
so  that  some  one  hehind  him  heard.  It  was  Mrs. 
Detlor.  She  had,  with  the  young  girl  who  had 
sat  at  her  feet  the  evening  hefore,  been  shown 
into  the  outer  room,  had  playfully  parted  the  cur- 
tains between  the  rooms  and  entered. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  sketch, 
fascinated,  thrilled.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
then  went  dry  and  hot,  as  she  said  in  a  loud 
whisper,  "Yes,  the  heart  of  the  thing  is  there." 

Hagar  turned  on  her  quickly,  astonished,  eager, 
his  face  shining  with  a  look  superadded  to  his 
artistic  excitement. 

She  put  her  finger  to  her  lip,  and  nodded  br.  Ho- 
wards to  the  other  room.  He  understood.  "  Yes, 
I  know,"  he  said,  "  the  light-comedy  manner." 
He  waved  his  hand  towards  the  drawing.  "  But 
is  it  not  in  the  right  yein  ?  " 

"  It   is   painfully,  horribly  true,"   she  said.      She 

43 


The  Liar 


V 


*  ■' 


looked  from  him  to  the  canvas,  from  the  canvas 
to  him,  and  then  made  a  little  pathetic  gesture 
with  her  hands.     "  What  a  jest  life  is  !  " 

"  A  game  —  a  wonderful  game,"  he  replied, 
"and  a  wicked  one,  when  there  is  gambling  with 
human  hearts." 

Then  he  turned  with  her  towards  the  other 
room.  As  he  passed  her  to  draw  aside  the  curtain, 
she  touched  his  a^ii  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers 
so  lightly  —  as  she  intended  —  that  he  did  not  feel 
it.  There  was  a  mute  confiding  tenderness  in 
the  action  more  telling  than  any  speech.  The 
woman  had  had  a  brilliant,  varied,  but  lonely  life. 
It  must  still  be  lonely,  though  now  the  pleasant 
vista  of  a  new  career  kept  opening  and  closing 
before  her,  rendering  her  days  fascinating  yet 
troubled,  her  nights  full  of  joyful  but  uneasy  hours. 
The  game  thus  far  had  gone  against  her;  yet  she 
was  popular,  merry,  and  amiable. 

She  passed  composedly  into  the  other  room, 
Hagar  greeted  the  Young  Girl,  gave  her  books 
and  papers,  opened  the  piano,  called  for  some  re- 
freshments, and  presented  both  with  a  rose  from  a 
bunch  upon  the  table.  The  Young  Girl  was  per- 
fectly happy  to  be  allowed  to  sit  in  the  courts 
without  and  amuse  herself,  while  the  artist  and  his 

44 


The  Meeting 

admired  model  should  have  their  hour  with  penc" 

and  canvas. 

The  two  then  went  to  the  studio  again,  and, 
leaving  the  curtain  drawn  back,  Hagar  arranged 
Mrs.  Detlor  in  position,  and  began  his  task.  He 
stood  looking  at  the  canvas  for  a  time,  as  though 
to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  it  again ;  then  turned  to 
his  model.  She  was  no  longer  Mrs.  Detlor,  but 
his  subject,-  near  to  him  as  his  canvas  and  the 
creatures  of  his  imagination,  but  as  a  mere  woman 
in  whom  he  was  profoundly  interested  (that  at 
least)  an  immeasurable  distance  from  him.  He 
was  the  artist  only  now. 

It  was  strange.  There  grew  upon  the  canvas 
Mrs.  Detlor's  face,  all  the  woman  of  it,  just 
breaking  through  sweet,  awesomely  beautiful, 
girlish  features;  and  though  the  work  was  but 
begun,  there  was  already  that  luminous  tone  which 
artists  labor  so  hard  to  get,  giving  to  the  face  a 
weird,  yet  charming  expression. 

For  an  hour  he  worked,  then  he  paused. 
"Would    you    like    to   see    it?"   he   said. 

She  rose  eagerly  and  a  little  pale.  He  had  now 
sketched  in  more  distinctly  the  figure  of  a  man, 
changed  it  purposely  to  look  more  like  Telford. 
She  saw  her  own  face  first.     It  shone  out  of  the 

45 


T 


V  t 


I  I 


The  Liar 

canvas.  She  gave  a  gasp  of  pain  and  admiration. 
Then  she  caught  sight  of  Telford's  figure,  with 
the  face  blurred  and  indistinct. 

"Oh!"  she  said  with  a  shudder,  "that that 

is  like  him.      How  could  you  know?" 

"If  that  is  the  man,"  he  said,  "I  saw  him  this 
morning.      Is  his  name  Mark  Telford  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  and  sank  into  a  chair.  Pres- 
ently she  sprang  lo  her  feet,  caught  up  a  brush,  and 
put  it  into  his  hand.  "  Paint  in  his  face.  Quick  : 
paint  in  his  face.      Put  all  his  wickedness  there." 

Hagar  came  close  to  her.  "  You  hate  him  ?  " 
he  said,  and  took  the  brush. 

She  did  not  answer  by  word,  but  shook  her  head 
wearily  as  to  some  one  far  off,  expressing  neither 
yes  nor  no. 

"Why  ?"  he  said  quietly  —  all  their  words  had 
been  in  low  tones,  that  they  might  not  be  heard  — 
"  why  do  you  wear  that  ring  then  r  " 

She  looked  at  her  hand  with  a  bitter,  pitiful 
smile.  "  I  wear  it  in  memory  of  that  girl,  who 
died  very  young"— she  pointed  to  the  picture  — 
"  and  to  remind  me  not  to  care  for  anything  too 
much,  lest  it  should  prove  to  be  a  lie."  She 
nodded  softly  to  the  picture.  »  He  and  She  are 
both  dead  ;  other  people  wear  their  faces  now." 

46 


T 


The  Meeting 

"  Poor  woman  !  "  he  said  in  a  whisper.  Then 
he  turned  to  the  canvas,  and,  after  a  moment,  hlled 
in  from  memory  the  face  of  Mark  Telford,  she 
watching  him  breathlessly,  yet  sitting  \erv  still. 

After  some  minutes  he  drew  back  and  looked  at  it. 

She  rose  and  said,  "  Yes,  he  was  like  that,  only 
you  have  added  what  I  saw  at  another  time.  Will 
you  hear  the  sequel  now  ?  " 

He  turned  and  motioned  her  to  a  seat,  then  sat 
down  opposite  to  her. 

She  spoke  sadlv\  "  Why  should  I  tell  vou  ?  — 
I  do  not  know,  except  that  it  seemed  to  me  you 
would  understand.  Yet  I  hope  men  like  vou  forget 
what  is  best  forgotten  ;  and  I  feel  —  oh,  do  you 
really  care  to  hear  it  ? " 

"  I  love  to  listen  to  vou." 

"  That  girl  was  fatherless,  brotherless.  There 
was  no  man  with  any  rii^ht  to  stand  her  friend  at 
the  time — to  avenge  her — though,  God  knows, 
she  wished  for  no  revenge  —  except  a  distant 
cousin  who  had  come  fiotn  En<rland  to  see  hei 
mother  and  herself — to  marry  her  if  he  could. 
She  did  not  know  his  motives  ;  she  believed  that 
he  really  cared  for  her ;  she  v^ms  young,  and  she 
was  sorry  for  his  disappointment.  When  that 
thing     happened"  —  (her     eyes    were      on     the 

47 


r 


The  Liar 

picture,  dry  and  hard)  —  "  he  came  forward,  de- 
termined —  so  he  said  —  to  make  the  deceiver  pay 
for  his  deceit  w'th  his  life.  It  seemed  brave,  and 
what  a  man  would  do,  what  a  Southerner  would  do. 
He  was  an  Englishman,  and  so  it  looked  still  n  2 
brave  in  him.  He  went  to  the  man's  rooms  and 
offered  him  a  chance  for  his  life  by  a  duel.  He 
had  brought  revolvers.  He  turned  the  key  in  the 
door,  and  then  laid  the  pistols  he  had  brought  on 
the  table.  Without  warning  the  other  snatched  up 
a  small  sword,  and  stabbed  him  with  it.  He  man- 
aged to  get  one  of  the  revolvers,  fired,  and  brought 
the  man  down.  The  man  was  not  killed,  but  it 
was  a  long  time  before  he  —  Mark  Telford  there  — 
was  well  again.     When  he  got  up,  the  girl  — " 

"  Poor  girl  !  " 

"  When  he  got  up  the  girl  was  married  to  the 
cousin  who  had  perilled  his  life  for  her.  It  was 
madness,  but  it  was  so." 

Here  she  paused.  The  silence  seemed  oppres- 
sive. Hagar,  divining  her  thought,  got  up,  went 
to  the  archway  between  the  rooms,  and  asked  the 
Young  Girl  to  play  something.  It  helped  him, 
he  said,  when  he  was  thinking  how  to  paint.  He 
went  back. 

Mrs.  Detlor  continued  :    "  But  it  was  a  terrible 

48 


I 


The  Meeting 

mistake.  There  was  a  valuable  property  In  Eng- 
land which  the  cousin  knew  she  could  get  by 
proving  certain  things.  The  marriage  was  to  him 
a  speculation.  When  she  waked  to  that  —  it  was 
a  dreadful  awakening — she  refused  to  move  in 
the  matter.  Is  there  anything  more  shameful 
than  speculation  in  flesh  and  blood — the  heart 
and  life  of  a  child  .?  —  he  was  so  much  older  than 
she  !  Life  to  her  was  an  hourly  pain  —  you  see 
she  was  wild  with  indignation  and  shame,  and  alive 
with  a  kind  of  gratitude  and  reaction  when  she 
married  him.  And  her  life?  Maternity  was  to 
her  an  agony  such  as  comes  to  few  women  who 
suffer  and  live.  If  her  child  —  her  beautiful,  noble 
child — had  lived,  she  would,  perhaps,  one  day 
have  claimed  the  property  for  its  sake.  This  child 
was  her  second  love  and  it  died  —  it  died.'* 

She  drew  from  her  breast  a  miniature.  He 
reached  out,  and,  first  hesitating,  she  presently 
gave  it  into  his  hand.  It  was  warm  — it  had  lain 
on  her  bosom.  His  hand,  generally  so  steady, 
trembled.  He  raised  the  miniature  to  his  own 
lips.      She  reached  out  her  hand,  flushing  greatly. 

"  Oh,  please,  you  must  not !  "  she  said. 

"  Go  on,  tell   me  all,"  he   urged,  but   still  held 
the  miniature  in  his  hand  for  a  moment. 
4  49 


pf  r 


% 


The  Liar 

"There  is  little  more  to  tell.  He  played  a  part. 
She  came  to  know  how  coarse  and  brutal  he  was, 
how  utterly  depraved. 

"At  last  he  went  away  to  Africa  —  that  was 
three  years  ago.  Word  came  that  he  was  drowned 
off  the  coast  of  Madagascar,  but  there  is  nothing 
sure,  and  the  woman  would  not  believe  that  he  was 
dead  unless  she  saw  him  so,  or  some  one  she 
could  trust  had  seen  him  buried.  Yet  people  call 
her  a  widow  —  who  wears  no  mourning"  (she 
smiled  bitterly)  "  nor  can  until  —  " 

Hagar  came  to  his  feet.  "You  have  trusted 
me,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will  honor  your  confidence. 
To  the  world  the  story  I  tell  on  this  canvas  shall 
be  my  own." 

"  I  like  to  try  and  believe,"  she  said,  "  that 
there  are  good  men  in  the  world.  But  I  have  not 
done  so  these  many  years.  Who  would  think 
that  of  me  ?  —  I  who  sing  merrv  songs,  and  have 
danced  and  am  gay  —  how  well  we  wear  the 
mask,  some  of  us  !  " 

"  I  am  sure,"  he  said,  "  that  there  are  better 
days  coming  for  you.     On  my  soul  I  think  it ! " 

"  But  he  is  here,"  she  said.  "  What  for  ?  I 
cannot  t.^nk  there  will  be  anything  but  misery 
when  he  crosses  mv  path." 

50 


\\ 


m 


The  Meeting 

"  That  duel,"   he  rejoined,  the  instinct  of  fair- 
ness natural  to  an   honorable  man  roused  in  him  ; 

—  "  did  you  ever  hear  more  than  one  side  of  it  ?  " 
"No;     yet    sometimes    I    have    thought    there 

might    be   more    than   one   side.      Fairfax    Detlor 
was    a    coward;    and  whatever  that    other  was," 

—  she   nodded    to   the    picture — "he    feared    no 
man." 

"  A  minute  !  "  he  said.  "  Let  me  make  a  sketch 
of  it." 

He  got  to  work  immediately.  After  the  first 
strong  outlines  she  rose,  came  to  him  and  said, 
"You  know  as  much  of  it  as  I  do  —  I  will  not 
stay  any  longer." 

He  caught  her  fingers  in  his  and  held  them  for 
an  instant.  "  It  is  brutal  of  me.  I  did  not  stop 
to  think  what  all   this  might  cost  you." 

"  If  you  paint  a  notable  picture  and  gain  honor 
by  it,  that  is  enough,"  she  said.  "  It  may  make 
you  famous."  She  smiled  a  little  wistfully. 
"You  are  very  ambitious,  you  needed,  you  said 
to  me  once,  a  simple  but  powerful   subject  which 

you  could  paint  in    with  some  one's    life-blood 

that  sounds  more  dreadful  than  it  is  .  .  .  well  ! 
.  .  .  You  said  you  had  been  successful,  but  had 
never   had    an   inspiration  — ■  " 

51 


■illllil 


HI 


I 


The  Liar 

"  I  have  one  !  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Never  an  Inspiration 
which  had  possessed  you  as  you  ought  to  be  to 
move  the  public  .  .  .  vi^ell  ?  ...  do  you  think 
I  have  helped  you  at  all  ?  I  wanted  so  much  to 
do  something  for  you." 

To  Hagar's  mind  there  came  the  remembrance 
of  the  pure  woman  who,  to  help  an  artist,  as 
poverty-stricken  as  he  was  talented,  engaged  on 
the  Capture  of  Cassandra^  came  into  his  presence 
as  Lady  Godiva  passed  through  the  streets  of 
Coventry,  as  hushed  and  as  solemn.  A  sob  shook 
in  his  throat —  he  was  of  few  but  strong  emotions; 
he  reached  out,  took  her  wrists  in  his  hands,  and 
held  them  hard.  "  I  have  my  inspiration  now,"  he 
said ;  "  I  know  that  I  can  paint  my  one  great 
picture.  I  shall  owe  all  to  you.  And  for  my 
gratitude,  it  seems  little  to  say  that  I  love  you  — 
I  love  you,  Marion." 

She  drew  her  hands  away,  turned  her  head 
aside,  her  face  both  white  and  red.  "  Oh,  hush, 
you  must  not  say  it  !  "  she  said.  "  You  forget  ; 
do  not  make  me  fear  you  and  hate  myself.  .  .  . 
I  wanted  to  be  your  friend  —  from  the  first,  to 
help  you,  as  I  said  ;  be,  then,  a  friend  to  me,  that 
I  may  forgive  myself." 

52 


The  Meeting 

"  Forgive  yourself —  for  what  ?  I  wish  to  God 
I  had  the  right  to  proclaim  my  love  —  if  you 
would  have  it,  dear  —  to  all  the  world.  .  .  .  And 
I  will  know  the  truth,  for  I  will  find  your  husband, 
or  his  grave." 

She  looked  up  at  him  gravely,  a  great  confi- 
dence in  her  eyes.  "  I  wish  you  knew  how  much 
in  earnest  I  am  —  in  wishing  to  help  you.  Be- 
lieve me,  that  is  the  first  thought.  For  the  rest 
I  am  —  shall  I  sav  it?  —  the  derelict  of  a  life; 
and  I  can  only  drift.  You  are  young,  as  young 
almost  as  I  in  years,  much  younger  every  other 
way,  for  I  began  with  tragedy  too  soon." 

At  that  moment  there  came  a  loud  knock  at  the 
outer  door,  then  a  ring,  followed  by  a  cheerful 
voice  calling  through  the  window, — "I  say, 
Hagar,  are  you  there  ?  Shall  I  come  in  or  wait 
on  the  mat  till  the  slavey  arrives.  .  .  .  Oh,  here 
she  is  —  Salaam  !  Talofa  !  Aloha  !  —  which  is 
heathen  for  How-do-you-do,  God-bless-you,  and 
All-hail !  " 

These  remarks  were  made  in  the  passage  from 
the  door  through  the  hall-wav  into  the  room.  As 
Baron  entered,  Hagar  and  Mrs.  Detlor  were  just 
coming  from  the  studio.  Both  had  ruled  their 
features  into  stillness. 

53 


~v  ..-V-li'l  .,..J.K.,J!„i,.*,4 


I; 


i 


The  Liar 

Baron   stopped  short,  open-mouthed,  confused, 
when  he  saw  Mrs.  Detlor.      Hagar,  for  an  instant, 
attributed   this  to   a  reason  not  in    Baron's  mind, 
and    was    immediately    angry.     For    the    man    to 
show   embarrassment    was    an    ill    compliment    to 
Mrs.  Detlor.      However,  he  carried  off  the  situa- 
tion, and   welcomed   the   Afrikander   genially,   de- 
termining   to    have   the   matter    out   with    him  in 
some  sarcastic  moment   later.      Baron's  hesitation, 
however,    continued.      He    stammered,    and     was 
evidently  trying  to  account   for  his  call   by  giving 
some   other  reason  than    the   real   one,  which  was 
undoubtedly  held  back  because  of  Mrs.   Detlor's 
presence.      Presently,  he   brightened   up,  and  said 
with    an  attempt   to  be  convincing:  "You  know 
that  excursion  this  afternoon,  Hagar?     Well,  don't 
you   think  we  might   ask   the  chap    we   met    this 
morning  —  first-rate     fellow  —  no     pleb  —  pictu- 
resque for  the  box-seat  —  go  down  with  the  ladies 
—  all  like  him —  eh  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  how  we  can,"  replied  Hagar 
coolly  —  Mrs.  Detlor  turned  to  the  mantelpiece 
— "  we  are  full  up ;  every  seat  is  occupied  — 
unless  I  give  up  my  seat  to  him." 

Mrs.  Detlor  half  turned  towards  them  again, 
listening  acutely.     She  caught  Hagar's  eyes  in  the 

54 


The  Meeting 

mirror  and  saw,  to  her  relief,  that  he  had  no 
intention  of  giving  up  his  seat  to  Mark  Telford. 
She  knew  that  she  must  meet  this  man  whom  she 
had  not  seen  for  twelve  years.  She  felt  that 
he  would  seek  her,  though  why  she  could  not  tell ; 
but  this  day  she  wanted  to  forget  her  past,  all 
things  but  one,  though  she  might  have  to  put  it 
away  from  her  ever  after.  Women  have  been 
known  to  live  a  life-time  on  the  joy  of  one  day. 
Her  eyes  fell  again  on  the  mantelpiece,  on  Hagar's 
unopened  letters.  At  first  her  eyes  wandered  over 
the  writing  on  the  uttermost  envelope  mechani- 
cally, then  a  painful  recognition  came  into  them. 
She  had  seen  that  writing  before,  that  slow,  sliding 
scrawl,  unlike  any  other,  never  to  be  mistaken.  It 
turned  her  sick.  Her  fingers  ran  up  to  the  envelope, 
then  drew  back.  She  felt  for  an  instant  that  she 
must  take  it  and  open  it  as  she  stood  there.  What 
had  the  writer  of  that  letter  to  do  with  George 
Hagar?  She  glanced  at  the  post-mark.  It  was 
South  Hampstead.  She  knew  that  he  lived  in 
South  Hampstead.  The  voices  behind  her  grew 
indistinct,  she  forgot  where  she  was.  She  did 
not  know  how  long  she  stood  there  so,  nor  that 
Baron,  feeling,  without  reason,  the  necessity  for 
making  conversation,  had  suddenly  turned  the  talk 

SI 


rJ 


t 


».-iiMMi«imwiiiiimi«—pwil>— y 


'    I' 
I 

i^  r 

{ 


The  Liar 

upon  a  collision,  just  reported,  between  two  vessels 
in  the  Channel.  He  had  forgotten  their  names 
and  where  they  hailed  from  —  he  had  only  heard 
of  it,  had  n't  read  it ;  but  there  was  great  loss 
of  life.  She  raised  her  eyes  from  the  letter  to 
the  mirror,  and  caught  sight  of  her  own  face. 
It  was  deadly  pale.  It  suddenly  began  to  waver 
before  her  and  to  grow  black.  She  felt  herself 
swaying,  and  reached  out  to  save  herself.  One 
hand  caught  the  side  of  the  mirror.  It  was 
lightly  hung.  It  loosened  from  the  wall,  and 
came  away  upon  her  as  she  wavered.  Hagar  had 
seen  the  action.  He  sprang  forward,  caught  her, 
and  pushed  the  mirror  back.  Her  head  dropped 
on  his  arm. 

The  Young  Girl  ran  forward  with  some  water 
as  Hagar  placed  Mrs.  Detlor  on  the  sofa.  It 
was  only  a  sudden  faintness.  The  water  revived 
her.  Baron  stood  dumfounded,  a  picture  of  help- 
less anxiety. 

"  I  ought  n't  to  have  drivelled  about  that 
accident,"  he  said.     "  I  always  was  a  fool." 

Mrs.  Detlor  sat  up,  pale,  but  smiling  ir*  a 
wan  fashion.  "  I  am  all  right  now,"  she  said.  "  It 
was  silly  of  me  —  let  us  go,  dear,"  she  added  to 
the  Young  Girl ;  "  I  shall  be  better  for  the  open 

56 


t 


n 


'. 


I 


The  Meeting 

air  —  I  have  had  a  headache  all  morning.  .  .  , 
No,  please  don't  accuse  yourself,  Mr.  Baron, 
you  are  not  at  all  to  blame." 

"I  wish  that  was  all  the  bad  news  I  have," 
said  Baron  to  himself  as  Hagar  showed  Mrs. 
Detlor  to  a  landau.  Mrs.  Detlor  asked  to  be 
driven  to  her  hotel. 

"I  shall  see  you  this  afternoon  at  the  excursion, 
if  you  are  well  enough  to  go  ?  "  Hagar  said  to 
her. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said  with  a  strange  smile. 
Then,  as  she  drove  away,  "  You  have  not  read 
your  letters  this  morning."  He  looked  after  her 
for  a  moment,  puzzled  by  what  she  said,  and  by 
the  expression  of  her  face. 

He  went  back  to  the  house  abstractedly.  Baron 
was  sitting  in  a  chair,  smoking  hard.  Neither 
man  spoke  at  first.  Hagar  went  over  to  the 
mantel  and  adjusted  the  mirror,  thinking  the  while 
of  Mrs.  Detlor's  last  words.  "  You  have  n't 
read  your  letters  this  morning,"  he  repeated  to 
himself.  He  glanced  down  and  saw  the  letter 
which  had  so  startled  Mrs.   Detlor. 

"  From  Mrs.  Gladney !  "  he  said  to  himself. 
He  glanced  at  the  other  letters.  They  were 
obviously  business  letters.     He  was  certain  Mrs. 

57 


M 


r 


liM 


hi 


I 


II 


'  I' 


The  Liar 

Dctlor  had  not  touched  them,  and  had,  therefore, 
only  seen  this  one  which  lay  on  top.  "  Could 
she  have  meant  anything  to  do  with  this  ?  "  He 
tapped  it  upwards  with  his  thumb.  "  But  why, 
in  the  name  of  Heaven,  should  this  affect  her  ? 
What  had  she  to  do  with  Mrs.  Gladney,  or  Mrs. 
Gladncy  with  her  ?  " 

With  his  inquiry  showing  in  his  eves  he  turned 
round  and  looked  at  Baron  mcditativclv,  hut  un- 
consciouslv.  Baron,  misunderstanding  the  look, 
said  :  "  Oh,  don't  mind  me.  Read  your  letters. 
My  business  '11  keep." 

Hagar  nodded,  was  about  to  open  the  letter, 
but  paused,  went  over  to  the  archwav,  and  drew 
the  curtains.  Then  he  opened  the  letter.  The 
bodv  of  it  ran  : 


|i 


u 


**  Dear  Mr.  Hacar,  —  I  have  just  learned  on  my 
return  from  the  Continent  with  the  Branscombes  that  you 
are  at  Herridon.  My  daughter  Mildred,  whom  you 
have  never  seen  —  and  that  is  strange,  we  having  known 
each  other  so  long  —  is  staying  at  the  View  House  thei 
with  the  Margraves,  v/hom,  also,  I  think,  you  do  nc 
know.  I  am  going  down  to-morrow,  and  will  introduce 
you  all  to  each  other.  May  I  ask  you  to  call  on  me 
there  ?  Once  or  twice  you  have  done  me  a  great  service, 
and  I  may  prove  my  gratitude   by  asking  you  to  do  an- 


, 


The  Meeting 

other.      Will   this   frighten  you  out  of  Plcrridon  before  I 
come  ?      I  hope  not,  indeed. 

"Always  gratefully  yours, 

'*  Ida  (ii,ad\f.y." 

He  thoughtfully  folded  the  letter  up,  and  put  it 
in  his  pocket.  Then  he  said  to  Haron  "  What 
did  you  say  was  the  name  of  the  pretty  girl  at  the 
View  House  ?  " 

"Mildred,  Mildred  Margrave  —  lovelv,  '  com  ■ 
eth  up  as  a  flower,'  and  all  that.  You  '11  see  her 
to-night." 

Hagar  looked  at  him  debatinglv,  then  said, 
"You  are  in  love  with  her.  Baron.  Isn't  it, — 
forgive  me —  is  n't  it  a  pretty  mad  handicap  ?  " 

Baron  ran  his  hand  over  his  face  in  an  embar- 
rassed fashion,  then  got  up,  laughed  nervously, 
but  with  a  brave  effort,  and  replied  :  "  Handicap, 
my  son,  handicap  ?  Of  course,  it  's  all  handicap. 
But  what  difference  does  that  make  when  it 
strikes  you  ?  You  can't  help  it,  can  you  ?  It  's 
like  loading  yourself  with  gold,  crossing  an  ugly 
river,  but  you  do  it.  Yes,  you  do  it,  just  the 
same." 

He  spoke  with  an  affected  cheerfulness,  and 
dropped  a  hand  on  Hagar's  shoulder.  It  was  now 
Hagar's    turn.       He    drew    down    the    hand    and 

59 


mmmtmm 


fMHM 


f     . 


'h 


•( 


The  Liar 

wrung  it  as  Baron  had  wrung  his  in  the  morning. 
"  You  're  a  brick,  Baron,"  he  said. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Hagar.  I  M  like  to  talk  the 
thing  over  once  with  Mrs.  Detlor.  She  's  a  wise 
woman,  I  believe,  if  ever  there  was  one ;  sound  as 
the  angels,  or  I  'm  a  Zulu.  I  fancy  she  'd  give  a 
fellow  good  advice,  eh? — a  woman  like  her,  eh?" 

To  hear  Mrs.  Detlor  praised  was  as  wine  and 
milk  to  Hagar.  He  was  about  to  speak,  but 
Baron,  whose  foible  was  hurriedly  changing  from 
one  subject  to  another,  pulled  a  letter  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  said ;  "  But  maybe  this  is  of  more 
importance  to  Mrs.  Detlor  than  my  foolish- 
ness. I  won't  ask  you  to  read  it.  I  '11  tell  you 
what 's  in  it.  But,  first,  it  's  supposed,  isn  't  it, 
that  her  husband  was  drowned  ?  " 

"  Yes,  oft'  the  coast  of  Madagascar.  But  it 
was  never  known  beyond  doubt.  The  vessel  was 
wrecked,  and  it  v/as  said  all  hands  but  two  sailors 
were  lost." 

"  Exactly.  But  my  old  friend  Meneely  writes 
me  from  Zanzibar,  telling  me  of  a  man  who  got 
into  trouble  with  Arabs  in  the  interior  —  there 
was  a  woman  in  it  —  and  was  shot  but  not  killed. 
Meneely  brought  him  to  the  coast,  and  put  him 
into  hospital,  and  said  he  was  going  to  ship  him  to 

60 


i- 


n 


The  Meeting 

England  right  away,  though  he  thinks  he  can't 
live.  Meneely  further  remarks  that  the  man  is  a 
bounder.  And  his  name  is  Fairfax  Detlor.  Was 
that  her  husband's  name  ?  " 

Hagar  had  had  a  blow.  Everything  seemed  to 
come  at  once :  happiness  and  defeat  all  in  a 
moment.  There  was  a  grim  irony  in  it.  "  Yes, 
that  was  the  name,"  he  said.  "  Will  you  leave 
the  telling  to  me  r  " 

"  That 's  what  I  came  for.  You  '11  do  it  as 
it  ought  to  be  done  ;   I  could  n't." 

"All  right.  Baron." 

Hagar  leaned  against  the  mantel,  outwardly 
unmoved,  save  for  a  numb  kind  of  an  expression. 
Baron  came  awkwardly  to  him,  and  spoke  with  a 
stumbling  kind  of  friendliness.  "  Hagar,  I  wish 
the  Arabs  had  got  him,  so  help  me  !  " 

"For  God's  sake  think  what  you  are  saying." 

"  Of  course  it  does  n't  sound  right  to  you,  and 
it  would  n't  sound  right  from  you ;  but  I  'm  a 
rowdy  colonial,  and  I  'm  damned  if  I  take  it  back  ! 
—  and  I  like  you,  Hagar!"  and,  turning,  he 
hurried  out  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Detlor  had  not  stayed  at  the  hotel  long; 
but,  as  soon  as  she  had  recovered,  went  out  for 
a  walk.     She   made  her   way  to  the  moor.     She 

6i 


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■wpaMMnini^ 


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The  Liar 


li  I 


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i^^ 


a. 


wandered  about  for  a  half-hour  or  so,  and  at  last 
came  to  a  quiet  place  where  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  sit.  As  she  neared  it  she  saw  pieces  of 
an  envelope  lying  on  the  ground.  Something  in 
the  writing  caught  her  eye.  She  stopped,  picked 
up  the  pieces,  and  put  them  together.  "  Oh," 
she  said  with  misery  in  her  voice,  "  what  does  it 
all  mean  ?  Letters  everywhere,  like  the  Writing 
on  the  Wall  !  " 

She  recognized  the  writing  as  that  of  iMark  Tel- 
ford. His  initials  were  in  the  corner.  The  envelope 
was  addressed  to  John  Earl  Gladney  at  Trinity 
Hospital,  New  York.  She  saw  a  strange  tangle  of 
events.  John  Earl  Gladney  was  the  name  of  the 
man  who  had  married  an  actress  called  Ida  Folger, 
and  Ida  Eolger  was  the  mother  of  Mark  Telford's 
child  !  She  had  seen  the  mother  in  London  ;  she 
had  also  seen  the  child  with  the  Margraves,  who 
did  not  know  her  origin,  but  who  had  taken  her 
once  when  her  mother  was  ill,  and  had  afterwards 
educated  her  with  their  own  daughter.  What  had 
Ida  Folger  to  do  with  George  Hagar,  the  man  who 
(it  was  a  jov  and  yet  an  agony  to  her)  was  more 
to  her  than  she  dared  to  think  ?  Was  this  woman 
for  the  second  time  to  play  a  part  —  and  what 
kind  of  a   part  —  in    her  life  ?      What  was  Mark 


^ 


The  Meeting 

Telford  to  John  Gladney  ?  The  thing  was  not 
pleasant  to  consider.  The  lines  were  crossing  and 
recrossing.  Trouble  must  occur  somewhere.  She 
sat  down  quiet  and  cold.  No  one  could  have 
guessed  her  mind.  She  was  disciplining  herself 
for  shocks.  She  fought  back"  everything  but  her 
courage.  She  had  always  had  that,  but  it  was 
easier  to  exercise  it  when  she  lived  her  life  alone 
—  with  an  empty  heart.  Now  something  had 
come  into  her  life  —  but  she  dared  not  think 
of  it! 

And  the  people  of  the  hotel  at  her  table,  a  half- 
hour  later,  remarked  how  cheerful  and  amiable 
iMrs.  Detlor  was.  But  George  Hagar  saw  that 
through  the  pretty  masquerade  there  played  a 
curious   restlessness. 

That  afternoon  they  went  on  the  excursion  to 
Rivers  Ahbev  —  A'  s.  I^etlor,  Hagar,  Baron,  Rich- 
mond, and  many  others.  They  were  to  return  by 
moonlight.  Baron  did  not  tell  them  that  a  coach 
from  the  \'it'w  Hotel  had  also  gone  there  earlier 
and  that  Mark  Telford  and  Mildred  Margrave 
with  her  friends  were  with  it.  There  was  no  par- 
ticular reason  why  he  should. 

Mark  Telford  had  gone  because  he  hoped  to  see 
Mrs.   Detlor  without   (if  he   should  think   it   best) 

63 


t 


' ::  1 


t 


I    !   II 

U  1 


5  1" 


If 


The  Liar 

being  seen  by  her.  Mildred  Margrave  sat  in  the 
seat  behind  him,  he  was  on  the  box  seat,  —  and 
so  far  gained  the  confidence  of  the  driver  as  to 
induce  him  to  resign  the  reins  into  his  hands. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  way  of  horses  unfamiliar 
to  Telford.  As  a  child  he  had  ridden  like  a 
circus-rider  and  with  the  fearlessness  of  an  Arab; 
and  his  skill  had  increased  with  years.  This  six- 
in-hand  was,  as  he  said,  "  nuts  to  Jacko."  Mil- 
dred was  delighted.  From  the  first  moment  she 
had  seen  this  man  she  had  been  attracted  to  him, 
but  in  a  fashion  as  to  gray-headed  Mr.  Margrave, 
who  sang  her  praises  to  everybody  —  not  infre- 
quently to  the  wide-open  ears  of  Baron.  At  last 
she  hinted  very  faintly  to  the  military  officer  who 
sat  on  the  box-seat  that  she  envied  him,  and  he 
gave  her  his  place.  Mark  Telford  would  hardly 
have  driven  so  coolly  that  afternoon  if  he  had 
known  that  his  own  child  was  beside  him.  He 
told  her,  however,  amusing  stories  as  they  went 
along.  Once  or  twice  he  turned  to  look  at  her. 
Something  familiar  in  her  laugh  caught  his  atten- 
tion. He  could  not  trace  it.  He  could  not  tell 
that  it  was  like  a  faint  echo  of  his  own. 

When    they   reached    the    park   where   the   old 
abbey  was,  Telford  detached  himself  from  the  rest 

64 


The  Meeting 

of  the  party,  and  wandered  alone  through  the  paths 
with   their    many  beautiful   surprises  of  water  and 
wood,  pretty  grottos,  rustic  bridges,  and  incompar- 
able turf.      He  followed   the  windings  of  a  stream, 
till,   suddenly,   he   came   out    into    a  straight    open 
valley,  at  the  end  of  which  were  the  massive  ruins 
of  the   old   abbey,  with    its   stern   Norman   tower. 
He  came  on   slowly,  thinking  how  strange   it  was 
that    he,    who    had    spent    years    in    the    remotest 
corners  of  the  world,  having  for  his  companions 
men   adventurous  as   himself,  and   barbarous  tribes, 
should    be    here.      His   life,    since   the   day  he   left 
his   home    in   the    South,   had    been    sometimes   as 
useless   as    creditable.      However,    he   was    not   of 
such  stuff  as  to  spend  an   hour  in   useless  remorse. 
He  had  made  his  bed,  and  he  had  lain  on  it  with- 
out  grumbling  ;  but   he   was  a  man   who   counted 
his  life  backwards  :   he  had  no  hope  for  the  future. 
The  thought  of  what  he  might  have  been  came  on 
him   here   in   spite  of  himself,   associated   with   the 
woman  —  to  him  always  the  girl  —  whose  happi- 
ness he  had  wrecked.      For,  the  other  woman,  the 
mother  of  his  child,  was  nothing  to  him  at  the  time 
of  the  discovery.     She   had  accepted  the  position, 
and   was  going  away  for  ever,  even  as  she  did  go 
after  all  was  over. 

S  65 


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I; 


i- 


I 
i.1 


The  Liar 

He  expected  to  see  the  girl  he  had  loved  and 
wronged  this  day.  He  had  anticipated  it  with  a 
kind  of  fierceness ;  for,  if  he  had  wronged  her,  he 
felt  that  he  too  had  been  wronged,  though  he 
could  never,  and  would  never,  justity  himself. 
He  came  down  from  the  pathway  and  wandered 
through  the  long  silent  cloisters. 

There  were  no  visitors  about :  it  was  past  the 
usual  hour.  He  came  into  the  old  refectorv,  and 
the  kitchen  with  its  immense  chimney,  passed  in 
and  out  of  the  little  chapels,  exploring  almost 
mechanically,  yet  remembering  what  he  saw  ;  and 
everything  was  mingled  almost  grotesquely  with 
three  scenes  in  his  life  —  two  of  which  we  know  ; 
the  other,  when  his  aged  father  turned  from  him 
dying,  and  would  not  speak  to  him.  The  ancient 
peace  of  this  place  mocked  these  other  scenes  and 
places.  He  came  into  the  long,  unroofed  aisle 
with  its  battered  sides  and  floor  of  soft  turf,  broken 
only  bv  some  memorial  brasses  over  graves.  He 
looked  up  and  saw  upon  the  walls  the  carved 
figures  of  little  grinning  demons  between  com- 
placent angels.  The  association  of  these  with  his 
own  thoughts  stirred  him  to  laughter — a  low, 
cold  laugh  which  shone  on  his  white  teeth. 

Outside,  a  few  people  were  coming  towards  the 

66 


J 


The  Meeting 

abbey,  from  both  parties  of  excursionists.  Hagar 
and  Mrs.  Detlor  were  walking  bv  themselves. 
Mrs.  Detlor  was  speaking  almost  breathlessl\-. 
"*Yes,  I  recognized  the  writing.  She  is  nothing, 
then,  to  you  ?   nor  has  ever  been  ?  " 

''Nothing,  on  my  honor!  I  did  her  a  service 
once  ;  she  asks  me  to  do  another,  of  which  I  am 
as  yet  ignorant:   that  is  all.      Here  is  her  letter." 


67 


1 


I 


1 

'U 


i; 


CHAPTER    III 


NO  OTHER   WAY 


GEORGE  HAGAR  was  the  first  to  move. 
He  turned  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Detlor.  His 
mind  was  full  of  the  strangeness  of  the  situation, 
this  man  and  woman  meeting  under  such  circum- 
stances after  twelve  years,  in  which  no  lines  of 
their  lives  had  ever  crossed  ;  but  he  saw,  almost 
unconsciously,  that  she  had  dropped  his  rose.  He 
stooped,  picked  it  up  and  gave  it  to  her.  With  a 
singular  coolness  —  for,  though  pale,  she  showed 
no  excitement  —  she  quietly  arranged  the  flower 
at  her  throat,  still  looking  at  the  figure  on  the 
platform.  A  close  observer  would  occasionally 
have  found  something  cynical,  even  sinister,  in 
Mark  TVlford's  clear-cut,  smoothly-chiselled  face; 
but  at  the  moment  when  he  wheeled  slowly  and 
faced  these  two.^  there  was  in  it  nothing  but  what 
was  strong,  refined,  and  even  noble.  His  eye, 
dark  and  full,  was  set  deep  under  well-hung  brows, 
and  a  duskinesss   in    the   flesh   round   them    gave 

68 


A        -  i 


No  Other  Way 

them  softness  as  well  as   power :   withal,  there  was 
a  melancholy  as  striking  as  it  was  unusual   in  him. 

In  spite  of  herself  Mrs.  Detlor  felt  her  heart 
come  romping  to  her  throat,  for,  whatever  this 
man  was  to  her  now,  he  once  was  her  lover.  She 
grew  hot  to  her  fingers.  As  she  looked,  the  air 
seemed  to  palpitate  round  her,  and  Mark  Telford 
to  be  standing  in  its  shining  hot  surf  tall  and 
grand.  But,  on  the  instant,  there  came  into  this 
lens  the  picture  she  had  seen  in  George  Hagar's 
studio  that  morning.  At  that  moment  Mildred 
Margrave  and  Baron  were  entering  at  the  other 
end  of  the  long,  lonely  nave.  The  girl  stopped 
all  at  once,  and  pointed  towards  Telford,  as  he 
stood  motionless,  uncovered.  "  See,"  she  said, 
"  how  fine,  how  noble  he  looks  !  " 

Mrs.  Detlor  turned  for  an  instant  and  saw  her. 

Telford  had  gazed  calmly,  seriously  at  Mrs. 
Detlor,  wondering  at  nothing,  possessed  by  a 
strange,  quieting  feeling.  There  was,  for  the  mo- 
ment, no  thought  of  right  or  wrong,  misery  or 
disaster,  past  or  future;  only  —  this  is  she!  In 
the  wild  whistle  of  Arctic  winds  he  had  sworn 
that  he  would  cease  to  remember,  but  her  voice 
ran  laughing  through  them  as  it  did  through  the 
blossoms  of  the   locust   trees  at  Tellavie;  and  he 

69 


i 


ill    ! 


n 


The  I  Jar 

could  not  forget.  When  the  mists  rose  from  the 
blue  lake  on  a  summer  plain,  the  rosy  breath  of 
the  sun  bearing  them  up  and  scattering  them  like 
thistle-down,  he  said  that  he  would  think  no  more 
of  her — but,  stooping  to  drink,  he  saw  her  face 
in  the  water,  as  in  the  hill-spring  at  Tellavic;  and 
he  could  not  forget.  When  he  rode  swiftly 
through  the  long  prairie  grass,  each  pulse  afire, 
a  keen,  joyful  wind  playing  on  him  as  he  tracked 
the  buffalo,  he  said  he  had  forgotten  ;  but  he  felt 
her  riding  beside  him  as  she  had  done  on  the  wide 
savannas  of  the  South ;  and  he  knew  that  he  could 
not  forget.  When  he  sat  before  some  lodge  in  a 
pleasant  village,  and  was  waited  on  by  soft-voiced 
Indian  maidens,  and  saw  around  him  the  solitary 
content  of  the  North,  he  believed  that  he  had 
ceased  to  think ;  but,  as  the  maidens  danced  with 
slow  monotony  and  grave,  unmelodious  voices, 
there  came  in  among  them  an  airy,  sprightly  fig- 
ure, singing  as  the  streams  do  over  golden  pebbles; 
and  he  could  not  forget.  When  in  those  places 
where  women  are  beautiful,  gracious,  and  soulless, 
he  saw  that  life  can  be  made  into  mere  conven- 
tion, and  be  governed  by  a  code,  he  said  that  he 
had  learned  how  to  forget  :  but  a  pale  young 
figure  rose  before  him  with  the  simple  reproach  of 

70 


t . 


■fWMmMMMI 


No  Other  Way 

falsehood  i  and  he  knew  that  he  should  always 
remember. 

She  stood  before  him  now.  A/Iavbe  some  pre- 
monition, some  such  smother  at  the  heart  as 
Hamlet  knew,  came  to  him  then,  made  him  almost 
statue-like  in  his  quiet,  and  filled  his  face  with  a 
kind  of  tragical  bcautv.  Hagar  saw  it  and  was 
struck  by  it.  If  he  had  known  Jack  Gladney  and 
how  he  worshipped  this  man  he  would  have  under- 
stood the  cause  of  the  inspiration.  It  was  all  the 
matter  of  a  moment  -,  then  Mark  7'elford  stepped 
down,  still  uncovered,  and  came  to  them.  He  did 
not  offer  his  hand,  but  bowed  gravelv  and  said,  "  I 
hardly  expected  to  meet  you  here,  Mrs.  Detlor, 
but  I  am   very  glad." 

He  then  bowed  to  Hagar. 

Mrs.  Detlor  bowed  as  gravely  and  replied  in  an 
enigmatical  tone  :  "  One  is  usually  glad  to  meet 
one's  countrymen  in  a  strange  land." 

"  Quite  so,"  he  said ;  "  and  it  is  far  from 
Tellavie." 

"  It  is  not  so  far  as  it  was  yesterday,"  she 
added. 

At  that  they  began  to  walk  towards  the  garden, 
leading  to  the  cloisters.  Hagar  wondered  whether 
Mrs.  Detlor  wished  to  be  left  alone  with  Telford. 

71 


•  J 


The  Liar 


{ 


\% 


1  ! 


As  if  divining  his  thought  she  looked  up  at  him 
and  answered  his  mute  question,  following  it  with 
another  of  incalculable  gentleness. 

Raising  his  hat  he  said  conventionally  enough  : 
"Old  friends  should  have  much  to  say  to  each 
other.      Will  you  excuse   me  ?  " 

Mrs.  Detlor  instantlv  replied  in  as  conventional 
a  tone  :  "  But  you  will  not  desert  me  ?  I  shall 
be  hereabouts,  and  you  will  take  me  back  to  the 
coach  ?  " 

The  assurance  was  given,  and  the  men  bowed 
to  each  other.  Hagar  saw  a  smile  play  ironi-- 
cally  on  Telford's  face  —  saw  it  followed  by  a 
steel-like  fierceness  in  the  eve.  He  replied  to 
both  in  like  fashion  ;  but  one  would  have  said  the 
advantage  was  with  Telford  —  he  had  the  more 
remarkable  personality. 

The  two  were  left  alone.  They  passed  through 
the  cloisters  without  a  word.  Hagar  saw  the 
figures  disappear  down  the  long  vista  of  groined 
arches.  "  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could  see  how  this 
will  all  end  !  "  he  muttered  ;  then  joined  Baron 
and  Mildred   Margrave. 

Telford  and  Mrs.  Detlor  passed  out  upon  a 
little  bridge  spanning  the  stream,  still  not  speak- 
ing.    As  if  by  mutual  consent   they   made   their 

72 


No  Other  Wav 

way  up  the  bank  aiul  the  hillside  to  the  top  of 
a  pretty  terrace,  where  was  a  rustic  seat  among 
the  trees.  W^hen  they  reached  it,  he  motioned  to 
her  to  sit.  She  shook  her  head,  however,  and 
remained   standing   close   to  a  tree. 

"What  vou  wish  to  say  —  for  I  suppose  you 
do  wish  to  say  something  —  will  he  brief,  of 
course  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  almost  curiously. 

"  Have  you  nothing  kind  to  say  to  me,  after  all 
these  years  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

"  What  is  there  to  say  now  more  than  — 
then  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  prompt  you  if  you  have  no  impulse. 
Have  you  none  ? 

"  None  at  all.  You  know  of  what  blood  we 
are,  we  Southerners.     We  do  not   change." 

"You  chanp;ed."  He  knew  he  oua;ht  not  to 
have  said  that,  for  he  understood  what  she  meant, 

"No,  I  did  not  change.  Is  it  possible  you  do 
not  understand  ?  Or  did  you  cease  to  be  a 
Southerner  when  you  became  —  " 

"When  I  became  a  villain?"  He  smiled 
ironically.     "  Excuse  me  ;  go  on,  please." 

"I  was  a  girl,  a  happy  girl.  You  killed  me: 
I  did  not  change.      Death  is   different.   .   .   .     But 

73 


^M^ 


\h 


The  Liar 


ii 


why  have  you  come  to  speak  of  this  to  me  ?  It 
was  ages  ago.  Resurrections  are  a  mistake,  be- 
lieve  me." 

She  was  composed  and  deliberate  now.  Her 
nerve  had  all  come  back.  There  had  been  one 
swift  wave  of  the  feeling  that  once  flooded  her 
girl's  heart ;  it  had  passed,  and  left  her  with  the 
remembrance  of  her  wrongs  and  the  thought  of 
unhappy  vcars  —  through  all  which  she  had  smiled, 
at  what  cost  before  the  world  !  Come  what  would, 
he  should  never  know  that,  even  now,  the  man  he 
once  was  remained  as  the  memory  of  a  beautiful 
dead  thing — not  this  man  come  to  her  like  a 
ghost. 

"  I  always  believed  y(3u,"  he  answered  quietly  ; 
"and  I  see  no  reason  to  change." 

"  In  that  case  we  need  say  no  more,"  she  said, 
opening  her  red  parasol,  and  stepping  slightly 
forward   into   the  sunshine,  as   if  to  go. 

There  ran  into  his  face  a  sudden  flush.  She 
was  harder,  more  cruel,  than  he  had  thought  were 
possible  to  any  woman.  "Wait,"  he  said  angrily, 
and  put  out  his  hand  as  if  to  stop  her.  "  By 
Heaven   you  shall  !  " 

"  You  are  sudden  and  fierce,"  she  rejoined 
coldly.     "What  do  you  wish  me  to  sav  — what  I 

74 


(■ 


No  Other  Way 

did  not  finish  ?  —  that  Southerners  love  altogether 
or  —  hate  altogether  ?  " 

His  face  became  like  stone.  At  last,  scarce 
above  a  whisper,  he  said  :  ^^  Am  I  to  understand 
that  you  hate  me?  that  nothing  can  wipe  it  out  ? 
no  repentance  and  no  remorse  ?  You  never  gave 
me  a  chance  for  a  word  of  explanation  or  excuse. 
You  refused  to  see  me.  You  returned  my  letter 
unopened.  Hut  had  you  asked  her  —  the  woman 
—  the  whole  truth  —  " 

"  If  it  could  make  anv  difference  I  will  ask  her 
to-morrow." 

He    did    not   understand  ;    he    thought  she   was 

speaking  ironically. 

"  You  are  harder  than  you  know,"  he  said 
heavily.  '••  Hut  I  icill  speak  ;  it  is  for  the  last 
time.      Will    you  hear  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to,  but  I  will  not  go." 
"  I  had  met  her  five  years  before  there  was  any- 
thing between  vou  and  me.  She  accepted  the  sit- 
uation  when  she  understood  that  I  would  not 
marry  her.  The  child  was  born.  I'ime  went  on. 
I  loved  you.  I  told  her,  she  agieed  to  go  away  to 
England.  I  gave  her  money.  The  day  you  found 
us  too-ether  was  to  have  been  the  last  that  I  should 
see  of  her.      The  luck  was  against  me.      It  always 

75 


The  Liar 


I 


^! 


>3 

i 


h  1' 


has  been  —  in  things  that  I  cared  for.  You  sent  a 
man  to  kill  mc  —  " 

"  No,  no,  I  did  not  send  anyone.  I  might  have 
killed  you  —  or  her  —  had  I  been  anything  more 
than  a  child  ;  but  I  sent  no  one.  You  believe  that, 
do  you  not  :'  " 

For  the  first  time  since  they  had  begun  to  speak 
siie  showed  a  little  excitement,  but  immediately 
was  cold  and   reserved  again. 

"  I  have  always  believed  you,"  he  said  again. 
"  The  man  who  is  your  husband  came  to  kill 
me  — 

"  He  went  to  fight  vou  !  "  she  said,  looking  at 
him  more  intently  than  she  had  yet  done. 

A  sardonic  smile  played  for  a  moment  at  his  lips. 
He  seemed  about  to  speak  through  it.  Presently, 
however,  his  eyes  half  closed,  as  with  a  sudden 
thought,  he  did  not  return  her  gaze,  but  looked 
down  to  where  the  graves  of  monks,  and  abbots, 
and  sinners  maybe,  were  as  steps  upon  the  river 
bank. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  he  thought.  "  She 
hates  me."  But  he  said  aloud  :  "  Then,  as  you 
say,  he  came  to  fight  me.  I  hear  that  he  is  dead," 
he  added  in  a  tone  still  more  softened.  He  had 
not  the  heart  to  meet  her  scorn  with  scorn.      As 

76 


No  Other  Way 

he  said,  it  did  n't  matter  if  she  hated  him.  It  would 
be  worth  while  remembering,  when  he  had  gone, 
that  he  had  been  gentle  with  her,  and  had 
spared  her  the  shame  of  knowing  that  she  hac' 
married  not  only  a  selfish  brute  but  a  eoward  and 
would-be  assassin  as  well.  He  had  only  heard 
rumors  of  her  life  since  he  had  last  seen  her, 
♦■welve  years  before ;  but  he  knew  enough  to  be 
sure  that  she  was  aware  of  Fairfax  Detlor's  true 
character.  She  had  known  less  still  of  his  life; 
for  since  her  marriage  she  had  never  set  foot  in 
Louisiana,  and  her  mother,  while  she  lived,  never 
mentioned  his  name,  or  told  her  more  than  that 
the  Telford  plantation  had  been  sold  for  a  song. 
When  Hagar  had  told  him  that  Detlor  was  dead, 
a  wild  kind  of  hope  had  leapt  up  in  him,  that  per- 
haps she  might  care  for  him  still,  and  forgive  him, 
when  he  had  told  all.  These  last  few  minutes  had 
robbed  him  of  that  hope.  He  did  not  (juarrel  with 
the  fact.  The  game  was  lost  long  ago,  and  it  was 
foolish  to  have  dreamed,  for  an  instant,  that  the 
record  could  be    reversed. 

Her  answer  came  quicklv  :  "  I  do  not  knoiv  that 
my  husband  is  dead.      It  has  never  been  verified." 

He  was  tempted  again,  but  only  for  an  instant. 
"  It  is  an  unfortunate  position  for  you,"  he  replied. 

77 


A 


The  Liar 


1^ 


He  had  intended  saving  it  in  a  tone  of  sympathy, 
but  at  the  moment  he  saw  Hagar  looking  up 
towards  them  from  tlie  Abbev,  and  an  involuntary 
but  ulterior  meaning  crept  into  the  words.  He 
loved,  and  he  could  detect  love,  as  he  thought. 
He  knew  by  the  look  that  she  swept  from  Hagar 
to  him  that  she  loved  the  artist.  She  was  agitated 
now,  and  in  her  agitation  began  to  pull  ot^' 
her  glove.  For  the  moment  the  situation  was 
his. 

"I  can  understand  your  being  wicked,"  she  said 
keenly,  "  but  not  \our  being  cowardly.  That  is, 
and  was,  unpardonable." 

"'That  is  and  was^' ''  he  repeated  after  her. 
"  When  was  I  cowardly  ?  "  He  was  composed, 
though  there  was  a  low  tire  in  his  eyes. 

"  Then  and  now." 

He  understood  well.  "  I,  too,  was  a  coward 
once,"  he  said,  looking  her  steadily  in  the  eyes  ; 
"  and  that  was  when  I  hid  from  a  young  girl  a 
miserable  sin  of  mine.  To  ha\e  spoken  would 
have  been  better,  for  I  could  but  have  lost  her,  as 
I  've  lost  her  now,  for  e   .m." 

She  was  moved,  but  whether  it  was  with  pity, 
or  remembrance,  or  reproach,  he  did  not  know, 
and    never    asked  j   for,   looking   at    her    ungloved 

78 


1  r 


No  Other  Way 

hand,  as  she  passed  it  over  her  eyes  wearily,  he  saw 
the  ring  he  had  given  her  vears  before.  He  stepped 
forward  quicklv  with  a  half-smothered  crv,  and 
caught  her  fingers.  "You  wearmv  ring,"  he  said. 
"  Marion,  you  wear  mv  ring  ;  you  do  care  for  me 
still!" 

She  drew  her  hand  away.  "  No,"  she  said 
fn-mly  :  "  no,  Mark  Telford,  I  do  not  care  for 
vou.  1  have  worn  this  ring  as  a  warning  to  me 
—  mv  daily  crucilixion.      Read  what   is   inside  it." 

She  drew  it  off  and  handed  it  to  him.  He  took 
It  and  read  the  words:  '-'- Tou  —  told — a  —  //V." 
This  was  the  bitterest  moment  in  his  life  :  he  was 
only  to  know  one  more  bitter,  and  it  would  come 
soon.  He  weighed  the  ring  up  and  down  in  his 
palm,  and  laughed  a  dry,  crackling  laugh. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  have  kept  the  faith  — 
that  you  hadn't  in  me  —  toleri'bly  well.  A  liar, 
a  coward,  and  one  who  strikes  from  behind  —  that 
is  it,  is  n't  it  ?  You  kept  the  faith,  and  I  did  n't 
tight  the  good  fight,  eh  ?  Well,  let  it  stand  so. 
Will  you  permit  me  to  keep  this  ring  ?  'I'he  saint 
needed  it  to  remind  her  to  punish  the  sinner.  The 
sinner  would  like  to  keep  it  now;  for  then  he 
would  have  a  hope  that  the  saint  would  forgive 
him  some  da\'." 

79 


The  Liar 


The  bitterness  of  his  tone  was  merged  at  last 
into  a  strange  tenderness  and  hopelessness. 

She  did  not  look  at  him.  She  did  not  wish  him 
to  see  the  tears  spring  suddenly  to  her  eyes.  She 
brought  her  voice  to  a  firm  quietness.  She  thought 
of  the  woman,  Mrs.  Gladney,  who  was  coming  ; 
of  his  child,  whom  he  did  not  recognize.  She 
looked  down  towards  the  A!>bey.  The  girl  was 
walking  there  between  old  Mr.  Margrave  and 
Baron.  She  had  once  hated  both  the  woman 
and  the  child.  She  knew  that  to  be  true  to  her 
blood  she  ought  to  hate  them  always  ;  but  there 
crept  into  her  heart  now  a  strange  feeling  of  pity 
for  both.  Perhaps  the  new  interest  in  her  life  was 
drivin":  out  hatred.  There  was  somethino-  more. 
The  envelope  she  had  found  that  day  on  the  moor 
was  addressed  to  that  woman's  husband,  from  whom 
she  had  been  separated  —  no  one  knew  why  —  for 
years.  What  complication  and  fresh  misery  might 
be  here  ? 

"  You  may  keep  the  ring,"  she  said. 

"  Thank  you,"  was  his  replv ;  and  he  put  in  on 
his  finger  looking  down  at  it  with  an  enigmatical 
expression.      "  And  is  there  nothing  more  ?  " 

She  wilfully  misconstrued  his  question.  She 
took  the  torn  pieces  of  envelope  from  her  pocket, 

80 


ik 


No  Other  Way 


♦» 


and   handed   them   to  him.     "  These   are  yours, 
she  said. 

He  raised  his  eyebrows,  "  Thank  you,  again. 
But  I  do  not  see  their  value.  One  could  almost 
think  you  were  a  detective,  you  are  so  armed." 

"  Who  is  he  ?  What  is  he  to  you  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  He  is  an  unlucky  man,  like  myself,  and  my 
best  friend.  He  helped  me  out  of  battle,  murder, 
and  sudden  death,  more  than  once;  and  we  shared 
the  sanK»  blanket  times  without  number." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  "  she  said  in  a  whisper, 
not  daring  to  look  at  him  lest  she  should  show  how 
disturbed  she  was. 

"He  is  in  a  hospital  in  New  York.'* 

"  Has  he  no  friends  ?  " 

"  Do  I  count  as  nothing  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  mean  no  others  —  no  wife  or  family  ?  '* 

"  He  has  a  wife,  and  she  has  a  daughter  ;  that 
is  all  I  know.  They  have  been  parted  —  through 
some  cause.  Why  do  vou  ask  ?  Do  you  know 
him  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not  know  him." 

"  Do  you  know  the  wife  ?  Please  tell  me  ;  for 
at  his   request  1  am  trying  to  find  her,  and  1  have 

failed." 

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Yes,  I  know  her,"  she  said,  painfully  and 
slowly.  "  You  need  search  no  h^iger.  She  will 
be  at  your  hotel  to-night." 

He  started,  then  said  :  "  I  'm  glad  of  that.  How 
did  you  come  to  know  ?      Are  you  friends  ?  " 

Though  her  face  was  turned  from  him  reso- 
lutely, he  saw  a  flush  creep  up  her  neck  to  her 
hair. 

"  We  are  not  friends,"  she  said  vaguely.  "  Hut 
I  know  that  she  is  coming  to  see  her  daughter." 

"  Who  is  her  dauo;hter  ?  " 

She  raised  her  parasol  towards  the  spot  where 
iMildred  Margrave  stood,  and  said  :  "That  is  her 
daughter." 

"  Miss  Margrave  ?  Why  has  she  a  different 
name  ?  " 

"  Let  Mrs.  Gladnev  explain  that  to  you.  Do 
not  make  yourself  known  to  the  daughter  till  you 
see  her  mother.  Believe  me,  it  will  be  better  — 
for  the  daughter's  sake." 

She  now  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  a  pity 
through  which  trembled  something  like  a  troubled 
fear.  "You  asked  me  to  forgive  you,"  she  said. 
"  Good-bv,  —  Mark  Telford,  I  do  forgive  you." 
She  held  out  her  hand.  He  took  it,  shaking  his 
head    a  little  over   it,  but   said   no  word. 

82 


No  Other  Way 

"  We  hid  better  part  here,  and  meet  no  more," 
she  added. 

"  Pardon,  but  banishment,"  he  said,  as  he  let 
her   hand   go. 

"  There  is  nothing  else  possible  in  this  world,'* 
she  rejoined  in  a  muffled  voice. 

"Nothing,  in  this  world,"  he  replied.  "  Good- 
by,  till  we  meet  again  —  somewhere." 

So  sa\  ing  he  turned  and  walked  rapidly  away. 
Her  eyes  followed  him,  a  look  of  misery,  horror, 
and  sorrow  upon  her.  When  he  had  disappeared 
in  the  trees  she  sat  down  on  the  bench.  "  It  is 
dreadful,"  she  whispered  awe-stricken  ;  "  his  friend, 
her  husband  ;  his  daughter  there,  and  he  does  not 
know  her  !      What  will  the  end  of  it  be  ?  " 

She  was  glad  she  had  forgiven  him,  and  glad  he 
had  the  ring.  She  had  something  in  her  life  now 
that  helped  to  wipe  out  the  past — still,  a  some- 
thing of  which  she  dared  not  think  freely.  The 
night  before  she  had  sat  in  her  room  thinking  of 
the  man  who  was  giving  her  what  she  had  lost 
many  years  past,  and,  as  she  thought,  she  felt  his 
arm  steal  around  her  and  his  lips  on  her  cheek; 
but  at  that,  a  mocking  voice  said  in  her  ear- 
"  You  are  my  wife  ;  1  am  not  dead  !  "  And  her 
happy  dream  was  gone. 

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The  Liar 

George  Hagar,  looking  up  from  below,  saw  her 
sitting  alone,  and  slowly  made  his  way  towards 
her.  The  result  of  the  meeting  between  these 
two  seemed  evident  :  the  man  had  gone.  Never 
in  his  life  had  Hagar  suffered  more  than  in  the 
past  half-hour.  'Fhat  this  woman  whom  he  loved 
—  the  onlv  woman  he  had  ever  loved  as  a  mature 
man  loves  —  should  be  alone  with  the  man  who 
had  made  shipwreck  of  her  best  days,  set  his  \'eins 
on  fire.  She  had  once  loved  Mark  Telford  — 
was  it  impossible  that  she  should  lo\  e  him  again  ? 
He  tried  to  put  the  thought  from  him  as  un- 
generous, unmanlv,  but  there  is  a  maggot  which 
gets  into  men's  brains  at  times,  and  it  works  its  will 
in  spite  of  them.  He  reasoned  with  himself,  he 
recalled  the  look  of  perfect  confidence  and  honesty 
with  which  she  regarded  him  before  they  parted 
just  now.  He  talked  gaily  to  Baron  and  Mildred 
Margrave,  told  them  to  what  different  periods  of 
architecture  the  ruins  belonged,  and  bv  sheer  force 
of  will  drove  awav  a  suspicion,  a  fear,  as  unrea- 
sonable as  it  was  foolish.  Yet,  as  he  talked,  the 
remembrance  of  the  news  he  had  to  tell  Mrs. 
Detlor,  which  might  (probably  would)  be  ship- 
wreck to  his*  hopes  of  marriage,  came  upon  hini, 
and  presently  made  him  silent,  so  that  he  wandered 

84 


No  Other  Way 


away  from  the  others.  He  was  concerned  as  to 
whether  he  should  tell  Mrs.  Detlor  at  once  what 
Baron  had  told  him,  or  hold  it  till  next  dav,  when 
she  might,  perhaps,  he  hetter  prepared  to  hear  it : 
though  he  could  not  help  a  smile  at  this,  for 
would  not  any  woman  —  ought  not  an\'  woman 
to? — be  glad  that  her  husband  was  alive?  He 
would  wait.  He  would  see  how  she  had  borne 
the   interview   with   T'elford. 

Presentlv  he  saw  that  7'elford  was  gone.  When 
he  reached  her  she  was  sitting,  as  he  had  often  seen 
her,  perfectly  still,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap  upon 
her  parasol,  her  features  held  in  control,  sa\e  that 
in  her  eves  was  a  bright  hot  flame  which  so  manv 
have  desired  to  see  in  the  eyes  of  those  thev  love, 
and  have  not  seen.  The  hunger  of  these  "is  like 
the  thirst  of  the  people  who  waited  for  Moses  to 
strike  the  rock. 

He  sat  down  without  speaking.  "  He  is  gone," 
he  said  at  last. 

"  Yes.  Look  at  me  and  tell  me  if,  from  mv 
face,  you  would  think  I  had  been  seeing  dreadful 
things."      She  smiled  sadly  at  him. 

"No,  I  could  not  think  it:  I  see  nothing 
more  than  a  kind  of  sadness  —  the  rest  is  all 
beauty." 

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The  Liar 

"Oh,  hush!''  she  replied  solemnly;  "do  not 
say  those  things  now." 

"  I  will  not,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  hear  them. 
What  dreadful  things  have  you  seen  ?  " 

"You  know  so  much,  you  should  know  every- 
thing," she  said ;  "  at  least,  all  of  what  mav 
happen." 

Then  she  told  him  who  Mildred  Margrave  was; 
how  years  before,  when  the  girl's  mother  was  very 
ill,  and  it  was  thought  she  would  die,  the  Margraves 
had  taken  the  child  and  promised  that  she  should 
be  as  their  own,  and  a  companion  to  their  own 
child  ;  that  their  own  child  had  died;  and  Mildred 
still  remained  with  them.  All  this  she  knew  from 
one  who  was  aware  of  the  circumstances.  Then 
she  went  on  to  tell  him  who  Mildred's  mother 
and  father  were,  what  were  Telford's  relations  to 
John  (iladnev,  and  of  his  search  for  (jladney*s 
wife. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  you  understand  all.  They 
must  meet !  " 

"  He  does  not  know  who  she  is  ?  " 

*'  He  does  not.  He  only  knows  as  yet  that  she 
is  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Gladney,  who,  he  thinks, 
is  a  stranger  to  him." 

*'  You  know  his  nature  ;  what  will  he  do  ?  ** 


No  Othf  r  Way 


"  I  cannot  tell.      What   can   he  do  ?  —  nothing, 

nothing !  " 

"You  arc  sonv  tor  him  ?    You  —  " 
"Do  not  speak  of  that,"  she   said  in. a  choking 
whisper.      "  (jod    gave   women    pity  to    keep  men 
from  hecoming  demons.      You  can  pity  the  execu- 
tioner   when,    killing   you,  he    must    kill   himself 

next." 

"I  do  not  understand  you  quite;  but  all  you  say 

is  wise." 

"  Do  not  try  to   understand   it  or  me,  I  am  not 

worth  it." 

"You  arc  worth,  God   knows,  a  better,  happier 

fate!" 

The  words  came  from  him  unexpectedlv,  impul- 
sively. Indirect  as  they  were,  she  caught  a  hidden 
meaning.     She  put  out  her  hand. 

"  You  have  something  to  tell  me.  Speak  it ! 
Sav  it  quickly  !  Let  me  know  it  now  !  One  more 
shock  more  or  less  cannot  matter." 

She  had  an  intuition  as  to  what  it  was.  "  I 
warn  you,  dear,"  he  said,  "that  it  will  make  a 
difference,  a  painful  difference,  between  us." 

"  No,  George  "  —  it  was  the  first  time  she  had 
called  him  that — "  nothing  can  make  any  differ- 
ence with  that." 

87 


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.!•■ 


M 


The  Liar 

He  told  her  simply,  bravely — she  was  herself  so 
brave  —  what  there  was  to  tell :  that  two  weeks 
ago  her  husband  was  alive,  and  that  he  was  now 
on  his  way  to  England  — perhaps  in  f^ngland  itself. 
She  took  it  with  an  unnatural  quietness.  She  grew 
distressingly  pale,  but  that  was  all.  Her  hand  lay 
clenched  tightly  on  the  seat  beside  her.  He  reached 
out,  took  it,  and  pressed  it,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"Please  do  not  sympathize  with  me,"  she  said. 
"  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  am  not  adamant.  You 
are  very  good  —  so  good  to  me,  that  no  unhappi- 
ness  can  be  all  unhappiness.  But  let  us  look 
not  one  step  further  into  the  future." 

"  What  you  wish  I  shall  do  always.*' 

"  Not  what  I  wish,  but  what  you  and  I  ought 
to  do  is  plain.'' 

"  I  ask  one  thing  only.  I  have  said  that  I  love 
you :  said  it  as  I  shall  never  say  it  to  another 
woman  —  as  I  never  said  it  before.  Say  to  me 
once  here,  before  we  know  what  the  future  will 
be,  that  you  love  me.      Then  I  can  bear  all." 

She  turned  and  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes, 
that  infinite  flame  in  her  own  which  burns  all 
passions  into  one  :  "  I  cannot  —  dear^''  she  said. 

Then  she  hurriedly  rose,  her  features  quivering. 
Without   a  word  they  went  down  the  quiet   path 


No  Other  Way 


to  the  river,  and  on  towards  the  gates  of  the  park, 
where  the  coach  was  waiting  to  take  them  back 
to   Herridon. 

They  did  not  see  Mark  Telford  before  their 
coach  left.  But,  standing  back  in  the  shadow 
of  the  trees,  he  saw  them.  An  hour  before  he 
had  hated  Hagar,  and  had  wished  that  they  were 
in  some  remote  spot  alone  with  pistols  in  their 
hands.  Now  he  could  watch  the  two  together 
without  anger,  almost  without  bitterness.  He  had 
lost  in  the  game,  and  he  was  so  much  the  true 
gamester  that  he  could  take  his  defeat  —  when  he 
knew  it  was  defeat  —  quietly.  Yet  the  new  de- 
feat was  even  harder  on  him  than  the  old.  All 
through  the  years  since  he  had  seen  her  there 
had  been  the  vague  conviction,  under  all  his  deter- 
mination to  forget,  that  they  would  meet  again, 
and  that  all  might  come  right.  That  was  gone, 
he  knew,  irrevocably. 

"  That 's  over,"  he  said,  as  he  stood  looking  at 
them.     *'The  king  is  dead  :   long  live  the  king!  " 

He  lit  a  cigar  and  watched  the  coach  drive 
away  ;  then  saw  the  coach  in  which  he  had  come 
drive  up  also,  and  its  passengers  mount.  He  did 
not  stir,  but  smoked  on.  The  driver  waited  for 
some  time,  and  when  he  did  not  come,  drove  away 

89 


'  1 

Hi 


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I  1 


The  Liar 

without  him,  to  the  regret  of  the  passengers  and  to 
the  indignation  of  Miss  Mildred  Margrave,  who 
talked  much  of  him  during  the  drive  back. 

When  they  had  gone,  T'clford  rose  and  walked 
hack  to  the  ruined  abbey.  He  went  to  the  spot 
where  he  had  first  seen  Mrs.  Detlor  that  dav,  then 
took  the  path  up  the  hillside  to  the  place  where 
they  had  stood.  He  took  from  his  pocket  the  ring 
she  had  gi\  en  back  to  him,  read  the  words  inside 
it  slowU ,  and,  looking  at  the  spot  where  she  had 
stood,  said  aloud  : 

"  I  met  a  man  once  who  imagined  he  was 
married  to  the  spirit  of  a  woman  living  a^  the 
North  Pole.  W^ell,  I  will  marry  myself  to  the 
ghost   of  Marion   Conquest  ! 

So  saving  he  slipped  the  ring  on  his  little  finger. 
The  thing  was  fantastic,  but  he  did  it  reverently  ; 
nor  did  it  appear  in  the  least  as  weakness,  for  his 
face  was  strong  and  cold.  "  Till  death  us  do  part 
—  so  help  me  Cjod  !  "   he  added. 

He  turned  and  wandered  once  more  through 
the  abbey,  strayed  in  the  grounds,  and  at  last  came 
to  the  park  gates.  Then  he  walked  to  the  town 
a  couple  of  miles  away,  went  to  the  railway  station, 
and  took  train  for  Herridon.  He  arrived  there 
some  time  before  the  coach  did.      He  went  straight 

f0 


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No  Other  Way 


to  the  View  House,  proceeded  to  his  room,  and  sat 
down  to  write  some  letters.  Presentlv  he  got  up, 
went  down  to  the  office,  and  asked  the  porter  if 
Mrs.  John  (ihulnev  had  arrived  from  London. 
The  porter  said  she  had.  He  then  felt  in  his 
pocket  for  a  card,  but  changed  his  mind,  saving  to 
himself  that  his  name  would  have  no  meaning  for 
her.  He  took  a  piece  of  letter-paper  and  wrote 
on  it:  "A  friend  of  \our  husband  brings  a  mes- 
sage to  you."  He  put  it  in  an  envelope  and, 
addressing  it,  sent  it  up  to  her.  The  servant 
returned,  saving  that  Mrs.  (jladne\  had  taken  a 
sitting-room  in  a  house  adjacent  to  the  hotel,  and 
was  probablv  there.  He  took  the  note  and  went  to 
the  place  indicated,  sent  in  the  note,  and  waited. 

When  Mrs.  Cjladnev  recei\  ed  th^'  note  she  was 
arranging  the  few  knick-knacks  she  had  brought. 
She  read  the  note  hurriedlv,  and  clenched  it  in  her 
hand.  "  It  is  his  writing — his,  Mark  Telford  !  — 
he,  mv  husband's  friend  '  —  good  God  !  " 

For  a  moment  she  trembled  \  iolentlv,  and  ran 
her  fingers  through  her  golden  hair  distractedU  ; 
but  she  partly  regained  her  composure,  came  tor- 
ward,  and  told  the  servant  to  show  him  into  the 
room.  She  was  a  woman  of  instant  determination. 
She    drew  the   curtains  closer,  so   that   the  room 

91 


11 


ft  ^ 


!    i 


W  ^ 


The  Liar 

would  be  almost  dark  to  one  entering  from  the 
sunlight.  Then  she  stood  with  her  back  to  the 
light  of  the  window.  He  saw  a  figure  standing  in 
the  shadow,  came  forward  and  bowed,  not  at  first 
looking  closely  at  the  face. 

"  I  have  come  from  your  husband,"  he  said. 
"My  name  is  Mark  Telford  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  interrupted. 

He  started,  came  a  little  nearer,  and  looked 
curiously  at  her.  "  Ida  —  Ida  Royal  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed. "Are  you — you  —  John  Gladney's 
wife  ?  " 

"  He  is  my  husband." 

Telford  folded  his  arms,  and,  though  pale  and 
haggard,  held  himself  firmly.  "  I  could  not  have 
wished  this  for  my  worst  enemy,"  he  said  at  last. 
*'  Gladney  and  I   have  been   more  than  brothers." 

"In  return  for  having  —  " 

"  Hush  !  "  he  interrupted.  "  Do  you  think 
anything  you  may  say  can  make  me  feel  worse 
than  I  do  ?  I  tell  you  we  have  lain  under  the 
same  blankets,  month  in,  month  out  —  and  he 
saved   my  life." 

"What  is  the  message  you  bring  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  begs  you  to  live  with  him  again  —  you  and 
your  child.     The  property  he  settled  on  you  for 

92 


IhIi 


No  Other  Way 

your  lifetime  he  will  settle  on  your  child.  Until 
these  past  few  days  he  was  himself  poor.  To-day 
he    is    rich  —  money    got    honestly,   as    you   may 

guess." 

"And  if  I  am  not  willing  to  be  reconciled?" 

"There  was  no  condition." 

"Do  you  know  all  the  circumstances  —  did  he 

tell  you  ?  " 

"No,  he  did  not  tell  me.  He  said  that  he  left 
you  suddenly  for  a  reason  •,  and  when  he  wished 
to  return  you  would  not  have  him.  That  was 
all.      He  never  spoke  but  kindly  of  you." 

"  He  was  a  good  man." 

"  He  is  a  good  man." 

"  I  will  tell  vou  why  he  left  me.  He  learned, 
no  matter  how,  that   1  had   not  been   married,  as   1 

said  I  had." 

She  looked  up,  as  if  expecting  him  to  speak. 
He  said  nothing,  but  stood  with  eyes   fixed  on   the 

floor. 

"  I  admitted,  too,  that  I  kept  alive  the  memory 
of  a  man  who  had  plavcd  an  evil  part  in  my  lite; 
that  I  believed  1  cared  for  him  still,  more  than  for 
my  husband." 

ci  Ida  !  for     God's     sake  !  —  you     do     not 


mean 


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The  Liar 


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"  Yes,  I  meant  v(>n  then.  Hut  when  he  went 
away,  when  he  proved  himself  so  noble,  1  changed 
—  I  learned  to  hate  the  memory  of  the  other  man. 
But  he  came  back  too  soon.  I  said  things  madly, 
things  1  did  not  mean.  He  went  again.  And 
then  afterwards  I  knew  that  1  loved  him.'* 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  upon  my  soul  !  "  said 
Telford,  letting  go  a  long  breath. 

She  smiled  strangely  and  with  a  kind  of  hard- 
ness. "  A  few  days  ago  I  had  determined  to  find 
him  if  I  could,  and  to  that  end  I  intended  to  ask 
a  man  who  had  proved  himself  a  friend  to  learn,  if 
possible,  where  he  was  in  America.  I  came  here 
to  see  him  —  and  my  daughter." 

"  Who  is  the  man  ?  " 

"Mr.  George  Hagar." 

A  strange  light  shot  from  Telford's  eyes. 
"  Hagar  is  a  fortunate  man,"  he  said.  I'hen, 
dreamily  :  "  You  have  a  daughter.  I  wish  to 
Ciod  that  —  that  ours  had  lived  !  " 

"  You  did  not  seem  to  care,  when  I  wrote  and 
told  you  that  she  was  dead." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  I  cared  then.     Besides  —  " 

"  Besides,  you  loved  that  other  woman ;  and 
my  child  was  nothing  to  you,"  she  said  with  low 
scorn.     "  1  have  seen   her  in  London.      I  am  glad 

94 


u 


No  Other  Way 

—  glad  that  she  hates  vou.  I  know  she  does," 
she  added.  "She  would  never  forgive  you.  She 
was  too  good  for  you  ;  and  vou  ruined  her  life." 

He  was  very  quiet,  and  spoke  in  a  clear  medita- 
tive voice:  "You  are  right.  I  think  she  hates 
me.  But  you  are  wrong,  too,  for  she  has  forgiven 
me." 

"You  have  seen  her?  "     She  cved  him  sharply. 

"Yes,  to-day."  His  look  wandered  to  a  table 
whereon  was  a  photograph  of  her  daughter.  He 
glanced  at  it  keenly.  A  look  of  singular  excite- 
ment sprang  to  his  eyes.    "  That  is  \ our  daughter  ?  " 

She  inclined  her  head.  "  How  old  is  she  ?  " 
He  picked  up  the  photograph  and  held  it,  scruti- 
nizing it. 

"She  is  seventeen,"  was  the  reply  in  a  cold 
voice. 

He  turned  a  worn  face  from  the  picture  to  the 
woman.     "  She  is  my  child.      You  lied  to  me." 

"  It  made  no  difference  to  you  then,  why  should 
it  make  any  difference  now  ?  Why  should  you 
take  it  so  tragically  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know;  but  now  —  ?"  His  head 
moved,  his  lips  trembled. 

"  But  now  she  is  the  dautihtcr  of  john  Gladne\  's 
wife.      She   is  loved  and   cared  for  by  people   who 

95 


wm 


r 


The  Liar 


are  better,  infinitely  better,  than  her  father  and 
mother  were  —  or  could  be.  She  believes  her 
father  is  dead  ;  and  he  is  dead  !  " 

"  My  child  !  my  child  !  "  he  whispered  brokenly 
over  the  photograph.  "  You  will  tell  her  that  her 
father  is  not  dead  ;   vou  —  " 

She  interrupted.  "  Where  is  that  philosophy 
which  you  preached  to  me,  Mark  Telford,  when 
you  said  you  were  going  to  marry  another  woman, 
and  told  me  that  we  must  part  ?  Your  child  has 
no  father.  You  shall  not  tell  her.  You  will  go 
away  and  never  speak  to  her.  Think  of  the  situa- 
tion. Spare  her,  if  you  do  not  spare  me  —  or 
your  friend  John  Gladney." 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair,  his  clenched  hands  rest- 
ing on  his  knees.  He  did  not  speak.  She  could 
see  his  shoulder  shaking  a  little,  and  presently  a 
tear  dropped  on  his  cheek. 

But  she  did  not  stir.  She  was  thinking  of  her 
child.  "  Had  you  not  better  go  ?  "  she  said  at 
last.     "  My  daughter  may  come  at  any  moment." 

He  rose  and  stood  before  her.  "  1  had  it  all ; 
and  I  have  lost  it  all !  "  he  said.  "  Good-by." 
He  did  not  offer  his  hand. 

"  Good-by.     Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Far   enough  away  to   forget,"  he  replied   in  a 

96 


f.( 


No  Other  Way 

shaking  voice.  He  picked  up  the  photograph, 
moved  his  hand  over  it  softly  as  though  he  were 
caressing  the  girl  herself,  lifted  it  to  his  lips,  put  it 
down,  and  then  silently  left  the  room,  not  looking 
back. 

He  went  to  his  rooms,  and  sat  writing  for  a 
long  time  steadily.  He  did  not  ^r-^m  excited  or 
nervous.  Once  or  twice  he  got  up,  and  walked 
back  and  forth,  his  eyes  bent  or  the  floor.  He 
was  nuking  calculations  regarding  t'^e  company 
he  had  floated  in  London,  and  certain  other  mat- 
ters. When  he  had  finished  writing,  three  letters 
lay  sealed  and  stamped  upon  the  table.  One  was 
addressed  to  John  Gladney,  one  to  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company,  and  one  to  a  solicitor  in  London. 
There  was  another  unsealed.  This  he  put  in  his 
pocket.  He  took  the  other  letters  up,  went  down 
stairs,  and  posted  th  ti.  Then  he  asked  the  hall- 
porter  to  order  a  horse  for  riding  —  the  best  mount 
in  the  stables  —  to  be  ready  at  the  door  in  an  hour. 
He  again  went  to  his  rooms,  put  on  a  riding-suit, 
came  down,  and  walked  out  across  the  esplanade 
and  into  the  street  where  Hagar's  rooms  were. 
They  were  lighted.  He  went  to  the  hall  door, 
opened  it  quietly,  and  entered  the  hall.  He  tapped 
at  the  door  of  Hagar's  sitting-room.  As  he  did  so 
7  97 


-  f\ 


B-*iK^-4&-' "■>;'*.'  ■ 


.■r^tffr^ 


t 


II 


The  Liar 

a  servant  came  out,  and,  in  reply  to  a  question, 
said  that  Mr.  Hagar  had  gone  to  the  Tempe 
Hotel,  and  would  be  back  directly.  He  went  in 
and  sat  down.  The  curtains  were  drawn  back 
between  the  two  rooms.  He  saw  the  easels 
with  their  backs  to  the  archway.  He  rose, 
went  in,  and  looked  at  the  sketches  in  the  dim 
light. 

He  started,  flushed,  and  his  lips  drew  back  over 
his  teeth  with  an  animal-like  fierceness;  but  im- 
mediately he  was  composed  again.  He  got  two 
candles,  brought  them,  and  set  them  on  a  stand 
between  the  easels.  Then  he  sat  down  and 
studied  the  paintings  attentively.  He  laughed 
once  with  a  dry  recklessness.  "  This  tells  her 
story  admirably  —  he  is  equal  to  his  subject.  To 
be  hung   in  the  Academy  —  well  !   well  !  " 

He  heard  the  outer  door  open,  then  immediately 
Hagar  entered  the  room,  and  came  forward  to 
where  he  sat.  The  artist  was  astonished,  and, 
for  the  instant,  embarrassed.  Telford  rose.  "  I 
took  the  liberty  of  waiting  for  you,  and,  seeing  the 
pictures,  was  interested." 

Hagar  bowed  coldly.  He  waved  his  hand 
towards  the  pictures.  "  I  hope  you  find  them 
truthful." 

9» 


No  Other  Way 

"  I  find  thcni,  as  I  said,  interesting.  They  will 
make  a  sensation — and  is  there  anything  more 
necessary  ?  You  are  a  lucky  man,  and  you  have 
the  ability  to  take  advantage  of  it.  Yes,  I  greatly 
admire  your  ability  —  I  can  do  that,  at  least, 
though   we   are  enemies,   I   suppose." 

His  words  were  utterly  without  offence.  A 
melancholy  smile  played  on  his  lips.  Again  Hagar 
bowed,  but  did  not  speak. 

Telford  went  on.  "  We  are  enemies,  and  yet 
I  have  done  you  no  harm.  You  have  injured 
me,  have  insulted  me,  and  yet  I  do  not  resent  it: 
which  is  strange,  as  my  friends  in  a  wilder  country 
would  tell  you." 

Hagar  was  impressed,  affected.  "  How  have  I 
injured  you?  —  by   painting  these?" 

"  The  injury  is  this.  I  loved  a  woman,  and 
wronged  her,  but  not  beyond  reparation.  Years 
passed.  I  saw  her,  and  loved  her  still.  She 
might  still  have  loved  me,  but  another  man  came 
in  —  it  was  you.  That  was  one  injury.  Then 
—  !"  He  took  up  a  candle  and  held  it  to  the 
sketch  of  the  discovery. — "This  is  perfect  in  its 
art  and  chivalry  ;  it  glorifies  the  girl.  That  is 
right."  He  held  the  candle  above  the  second 
sketch.     "  This,  "   he  said,   "  is  admirable  as  art 

99 


*»t»T.-r  •.■.».- -J- 


f   .f, 


ilBiiiwiTVi 


The  Liar 


^   11 


i  • 


•  ( 


and  fiction.  But  it  is  fiction.  I  have  no  hope 
that  you  will  change  it.  I  think  you  would  make 
a  mistake  to  do  so.  You  could  not  have  the  situa- 
tion, ii  the  truth  were  painted,  —  your  audience 
will  not  have  the  villain  as  the  injured   man," 

"  Were  you  the  injured  man  ?  " 

Telford  put  the  candle  in  Hagar's  hand.  Then 
he  quickly  took  off  his  coat,  waistcoat,  and  collar, 
and  threw  back  his  shirt  from  his  neck  behind. 

"The  bullet-wound  I  received  on  that  occasion 
was  in  the  back,"  he  said.  "  The  other  man  tried 
to  play  the  assassin.  Here  is  the  scar.  He  posed 
as  the  avenger,  the  hero,  and  the  gentleman ;  I 
was  called  the  coward  and  the  vagabond !  He 
married  the  girl." 

He  started  to  put  on  his  waistcoat  again. 
Hagar  caught  his  arm  and  held  it.  The  clasp 
was  emotional  and  friendly.  "  Will  you  stand 
so  for  a  moment  f "  he  said.  Just  so,  that  I 
may —  " 

"  That  you  may  paint  in  the  truth  ?  No.  You 
are  talking  as  the  man.  As  an  artist  you  were 
wise  to  stick  to  your  first  conception.  It  had  the 
heat  of  inspiration.  But  I  think  you  can  paint  me 
better  than  you  have  done  in  these  sketches. 
Come,    I    will    give    you    a    sitting.      Get    your 

I  GO 


^;3rr  i:— ^udL  -   ^^  ^  ^=. 


No  Other  Way 

brushes.  No,  no,  I  '11  sit  for  nothing  else  than 
for  these  scenes,  as  you  have  painted  them.  Don't 
miss  your  chance  for  fame." 

Without  a  word  Hagar  went  to  work,  and 
sketched  into  the  second  sketch  Telford's  face  as 
it  now  was  in  the  candle-light — worn,  strong,  and 
with  those  watchful  eyes  sunk  deep  under  the 
powerful  brows.  The  artist  in  him  became  greater 
than  the  man  -,  he  painted  in  a  cruel  sinister  ex- 
pression also.  At  last  he  paused,  his  hand  trem- 
bled.    "I  can  paint  no  more,"  he  said. 

Telford  looked  at  the  sketch  with  a  cold  smile. 
"  Yes,  that  's  right,"  he  said.  "  You  've  painted 
in  a  good  bit  of  the  devil,  too.  You  owe  me 
something  for  this;  I  have  helped  you  to  a  picture, 
and  have  given  you  a  sitting.  There  is  no  reason 
why  you  should  paint  the  truth  to  the  world.  But 
I  ask  you  this  :  When  you  know  that  her  husband 
is  dead  and  she  becomes  your  wife,  tell  her  the 
truth  about  that,  will  you  ?  —  how  the  scoundrel 
tried  to  kill  me  —  from  behind.  I  'd  like  to  be 
cleared  of  cowardice  some  time.  You  can  afford 
to  do  it.  She  loves  you.  You  will  have  every- 
thing ;   I  nothing — nothing  at  all." 

There  was  a  note  so  thrilling,  a  golden  timbre  to 
the  voice,  an  indescribable  melancholy,  so  affecting 

lOI 


rn 


The  Liar 


lii 


iJ    1! 


that  Hagar  grasped  the  other's  hand  and  said : 
"  So  help  me   God,  I  will !  " 

"  All  right." 

He  prepared  to  go.  At  the  door  Hagar  said  to 
him :  "  Shall  I  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  Probably  —  in  the  morning.     Good-night." 

Telford  went  back  to  the  hotel  and  found  the 
horse  he  had  ordered  at  the  door.  He  got  up  at 
once.  People  looked  at  him  curiously,  it  was 
peculiar  to  see  a  man  riding  at  night  —  for  pleas- 
ure —  and,  of  course,  it  could  be  for  no  other 
purpose.  "When  will  you  be  back,  sir?"  said 
the  groom. 

"  I  do  not  know."  He  slipped  a  coin  into  the 
groom's  hand.  "  Sit  up  for  me.  The  beast  is  a 
good  one  .?  " 

"  The  best  we  have.      Been  a  hunter,  sir." 

Telford  nodded,  stroked  the  horse's  neck,  and 
started.  He  rode  down  towards  the  gate.  He 
saw  Mildred  Margrave  coming  towards  him. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Telford,"  she  said,  "you  forsook  us 
to-day,  which  was  unkind.  Mamma  says  —  she 
has  seen  you,  she  tells  me  —  that  you  are  a  friend 
of  my  step-father,  Mr.  Gladney.  That 's  nice,  for 
I  like  you  ever  so  much,  you  know."  She  raised 
her  warm,  intelligent  eyes  to  his.      "I  've  felt  since 

102 


to 


a 


No  Other  Way 

you  came  yesterday  that  I  'd  seen  you  before  ;  but 
mamma  says  that  's  impossible.  And  it  is,  I  sup- 
pose, is  n't  it  ?      You  don't  remember  me  ?  " 

"  I  did  nt  remember  you,"  he  said. 

"  I  wish  I  were  going  for  a  ride,  too,  in  the 
moonlight  —  I  mean  mamma,  and  I,  and  you. 
You  ride  as  well   as  you  drive,  of  course." 

"  I  wish  you  were  going  with  me,"  he  replied. 
He  suddenly  reached  down  his  hand.  "  Good- 
night." Her  hand  was  swallowed  in  his  firm 
clasp  for  a  moment.  "  God  bless  you,  dear,"  he 
added,  then  raised  his  hat  quickly,  and  was  gone. 

"  I  must  have  reminded  him  of  some  one,"  the 
girl  said  to  herself.  "  He  said  '  God  bless  you, 
dear ! '  " 

About  that  time  Mrs.  Detlor  received  a  telegram 
from  the  doctor  of  a  London  hospital.      It  ran  :  — 

"  Your  husband  here.  Was  badly  injuied  in  a  channel 
collision  last  night.      Wishes  to  see  you." 

There  was  a  train  leaving  for  London  a  half- 
hour  later.  She  made  ready  hastily,  enclosed  the 
telegram  in  an  envelope  addressed  to  George  Hagar, 
and,  when  she  was  starting,  sent  it  over  to  his 
rooms.  When  he  received  it  he  caught  up  a  time- 
table, saw  that  a  train  would   leave  in  a   few  min- 

103 


1 


r' 


The  Liar 


\ 


utcs,  ran  out,  but  could  not  get  a  cab  quickly,  and 
arrived  at  the  station  only  to  see  the  train  drawing 
away.  "  Perhaps  it  is  better  so,**  he  said,  "  for 
her  sake." 

•  That  night  the  solitary  roads  about  Herridon 
were  travelled  by  a  solitary  horseman,  riding  hard. 
Mark  Telford's  first  ambition  when  a  child  was  to 
ride  a  horse.  As  a  man  he  liked  horses  almost 
better  than  men.  The  cool,  stirring  rush  of  wind 
on  his  face  as  he  rode  was  the  keenest  of  delights. 
He  was  enjoying  the  ride  with  an  iron  kind  of  h-  - 
mour.  For  there  was  in  his  thought  a  picture  — 
"  The  sequel's  sequel  for  Hagar's  brush  to-mor- 
row," he  said,  as  he  paused  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  to 
which  he  had  come  from  the  high  road,  and  looked 
round  upon  the  verdant  valleys,  almost  spectrally 
quiet  in  the  moonlight.  He  got  off  his  horse,  and 
took  out  a  revolver.      It  clicked  in  his  hand. 

"  No,'*  he  said,  putting  it  up  again,  "  not  here. 
It  would  be  too  damned  rough  on  the  horse,  after 
riding  so  hard,  to  leave  him  out  all  night !  " 

He  mounted  again.  He  saw  before  him  a  fine 
stretch  of  moor  at  an  easy  ascent.  He  pushed 
the  horse  on,  taking  a  hedge  or  two  as  he  went. 
The  animal  came  over  the  highest  point  of  the 
hill    at    full   speed.     Its    blood    was    up,    like    its 

104 


No  Other  Way 

master's.  The  hill  below  this  point  suddenly 
ended  in  a  quarry.  Neither  horse  nor  man  knew 
it,  until  the  yielding  air  cried  over  their  heads  like 
water  over  a  drowning  man,  as  they  fell  to  the 
rocky  bed  far  beneath. 

An  hour  after  Telford  became  conscious.  The 
horse  was  breathing  painfully  and  groaning  beside 
him.  With  his  unbroken  arm  he  felt  for  his 
revolver — it  took  him  a  long  time. 

"  Poor  beast,"  he  said,  and  pushed  the  hand  out 
towards  the  horse's  head.  In  an  instant  the 
animal  was  dead. 

He  then  drew  the  revolver  to  his  own  temple, 
but  paused.  "No,  it  wasn't  to  be,"  he  said, 
"  I  'm  a  dead  man,  anyway  !  "  and  fell  back. 

Day  was  breaking  when  the  agony  ceased.  He 
felt  the  gray  damp  light  on  his  eyes,  though  he  could 
not  see.  He  half  raised  his  head.  "  God  —  bless 
—  you,  dear  !"  he  said.     And  that  ended  it. 

He  was  found  by  the  workers  at  the  quarry.  In 
Herridon  to  this  day —  it  all  happened  years  ago  — 
they  speak  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company's  man 
who  made  that  terrible  leap,  and,  broken  all  to 
pieces  himself,  had  heart  enough  to  put  his  horse 
out  of  misery.  The  story  went  about  so  quickly, 
and    so   much    interest    was    excited    because    the 

105 


i: 


It 


')! 


I 


1 


1^ 


^ 


IM 


h 


1 


The  Liar 

Hudson's  Bay  Company  sent  an  officer  down  to 
bury  him,  and  the  new-formed  Aurora  Company 
was  represented  by  two  or  three  titled  directors, 
that  Mark  Telford's  body  was  followed  to  its 
grave  by  hundreds  of  people.  It  was  never  known 
to  the  public  that  he  had  contemplated  suicide. 
Only  John  Gladney  and  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany knew  that  for  certain. 

The  will,  found  in  his  pocket,  left  everything  he 
owned  to  Mildred  Margrave  —  that  is,  his  interest 
in  the  Aurora  Mines  of  Lake  Superior,  which  pay 
a  gallant  dividend.  The  girl  did  not  understand 
why  this  was,  but  supposed  it  was  because  he  was 
a  friend  of  John  Gladney,  her  step-father,  and 
perhaps  (but  this  she  never  said)  because  she  re- 
minded him  of  some  one.  Both  she  and  John 
Gladney,  when  they  are  in  England,  go  once  a 
year  to  Herridon,  and  they  are  constantly  sending 
flowers  there. 

Alpheus  Richmond  showed  respect  for  him  by 
wearing  a  silk  sash  under  his  waistcoat,  and  Baron 
by  purchasing  shares  in  the  Aurora  Company. 

When  Mark  Telford  lay  dead,  George  Hagar 
tried  to  take  from  his  finger  the  ring  which  carried 
the  tale  of  his  life  and  death  inside  it ;  but  the 
hand  was  clenched  so  that  it  could  not  be  opened. 

io6 


No  Other  Way 

Two  years  afterwards,  when  he  had  won  his  fame 
through  two  pictures  called  The  Discovery  and  The 
Sequel^  he  told  his  newly-married  wife  of  this.  And 
he  also  cleared  Mark  Telford's  name  of  cowardice 
in  her  sight,  for  which  she  was  grateful. 

It  is  possible  that  John  Gladney  and  George 
Hagar  understood  Mark  Telford  better  than  the 
woman  who  once  loved  him.  At  least  they 
think  so. 


HI 

I 


>g 


107 


l! 


ss 


»B» 


i 


The   Red   Patrol 
9 


i 


1 


?   i 


ST.  AUGUSTINE'S,  Canterbury,  had  given 
him  its  licentiate's  hood,  the  Bishop  of  Ru- 
pert's Land  had  ordained  him,  and  the  North  had 
swallowed  him.  He  had  gone  forth  with  his  sur- 
plice, stole,  hood,  a  sermon-case,  the  prayer-book 
and  that  Other.  Indian  camps,  trappers'  huts, 
and  Hudson's  Bay  Company's  posts  had  given 
him  hospitality  and  had  heard  him  with  patience 
and  consideration.  At  first  he  wore  the  surplice, 
stole  and  hood,  took  the  eastward  position,  and 
intoned  the  service,  and  no  man  said  him  nay, 
but  looked  curiously  and  was  sorrowful  —  he  was 
so  youthful,  clear  of  eye,  and  bent  on  doing  heroic 
things.  But  little  by  little  there  came  a  change. 
The  hood  was  left  behind  at  Fort  O'Glory,  where 
it  provoked  the  derision  of  the  Methodist  mission- 
ary who  followed   him,  the  sermon-case  stayed  at 

io8 


The  Red  Patrol 

Fort  O'Battle,  and  at  last  the  surplice  itself  at  the 
H.  B.  C.  post  at  Yellow  Quill.  He  was  too 
excited  and  in  earnest  at  first  to  see  the  effect  of 
his  ministrations,  but  there  came  slowly  over  him 
the  knowledge  that  he  was  talking  into  space. 
He  felt  something  returning  on  him  out  of  the  air 
into  which  he  talked,  and  buffeting  him.  It  was 
the  Spirit  of  the  North,  in  which  lives  the  awful 
natural,  the  large  heart  of  things,  the  soul  of  the 
past.  He  awoke  to  his  inadequacy,  to  the  fact  that 
all  these  men  to  whom  he  talked,  listened,  and 
only  listened,  and  treated  him  with  a  gentleness 
which  was  almost  pity  —  as  one  might  a  woman. 
He  had  talked  doctrine,  the  Church,  the  sacra- 
ments ;  and  at  Fort  O'Battle  he  awoke  to  the 
futility  of  his  work.  What  was  to  blame :  the 
Church  —  religion  —  himself? 

It  was  at  Fort  O'Battle  he  met  Pretty  Pierre, 
and  there  that  he  heard  a  voice  say  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  walked  out  into  the  icy  evening, 
"  The  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness  .  .  , 
and  he  had  sackcloth  about  his  loins ^  and  his  food  was 
locusts  and  wild  honey J^ 

He  turned  to  see  Pierre,  who  in  the  large  room 
of  the  post  had  sat  and  watched  him  as  he  prayed 
and  preached.     He  remembered  the  keen  curiou3 

109 


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111:1" 

i 


The  Red  Patrol 

eye,  the  musing  look,  the  habitual  disdain  at  the 
lips.  It  had  all  touched  him,  confused  him.  And 
now  he  had  a  kind  of  anger. 

"  You  know  it  so  well,  why  don*t  you  preach 
yourself?"   he  said   feverishly. 

"  1  have  been  preaching  all  my  life,"  Pierre 
answered  dryly. 

"  The  devil's  game :  cards  and  law-breaking, 
and  you  sneer  at  men  who  try  to  bring  lost  sheep 
into  the  fold." 

"The  fold  of  the  Church  —  yes,  I  understand 
all  that,"  Pierre  answered.  "  I  have  heard  you 
and  the  priests  of  my  father's  Church  say  that. 
Which  is  right  ?  But  as  for  me,  1  am  a  mission- 
ary. I  have  preached.  Cards,  law-breaking  — 
these  are  what  I  have  done.  But  these  are  not 
what  I   have   preached." 

"  What  have  you  preached  ?  "  asked  the  other, 
walking  on  into  the  fast-gathering  night,  beyond 
the  post  and  the  Indian  lodges  into  the  wastes 
where  frost  and  silence  lived. 

Pierre  waved  his  hand  towards  space.  "  This," 
he  said. 

"  What 's  this  P  "  asked  the  other  fretfully. 

"  The  thing  you  feel  round  you  here." 

"  I  feel  the  cold,"  was  the  petulant  reply. 

lie 


»> 


The  Red  Patrol 

"  I  feel  the  Immense,  the  Far  Off,"  said  Pierre, 
slowly. 

The  other  did  not  understand  as  yet.  "  You've 
learnt  big  words,"  he  said. 

"  No,  big  things,"  rejoined  Pierre,  sharply  — 
"a  few." 

"Let  me  hear  you  preach  them,"  half  snarled 
Sherbur'^e. 

"You  will  not  like  to  hear  them—  no." 

"I  'm  not  likely  to  think  about  them  one  way 
or  another,"  was  the  contemptuous  reply. 

Pierre's  eyes  half  closed.  The  young,  impetu- 
ous, half-baked  college  man,  to  set  his  little 
knowledge  against  his  own  studious  vagabondage  ! 
At  that  instant  he  determined  to  play  a  game  and 
win  ;  to  turn  this  man  into  a  vagabond  also,  to 
see  John  the  Baptist  become  a  Bedouin.  He  saw 
the  doubt,  the  uncertainty,  the  shattered  vanity  in 
the  youth's  mind,  the  missionary's  half-retreat  from 
his  cause.  A  crisis  was  at  hand.  The  youth  was 
fretful  with  his  great  theme,  instead  of  being  severe 
upon  himself.  For  days  and  days  Pierre's  presence 
had  acted  on  him  silently,  but  forcibly.  He  had 
listened  to  the  vagabond's  philosophy,  and  knew 
that  it  was  of  a  deeper  —  so  much  deeper  — 
knowledge  of  life  than  he  himself  possessed,  and 

III 


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,i  , 


The  Red  Patrol 

he  knew  also  that  it  was  terribly  true  —  he  was 
not  wise  enough  to  see  it  was  only  true  in  part. 
The  influence  had  been  insidious,  delicate,  cunning, 
and  he  himself  was  only  "  a  voice  crying  in  the 
wilderness,"  without  the  simple  creed  of  that 
voice.  He  knew  that  the  Methodist  mission- 
ary was  believed  in  more,  and  less  liked  than 
himself. 

Pierre  would  work  now  with  all  the  latent 
devilishness  of  his  nature  to  unseat  the  man  from 
his  saddle. 

"  You  have  missed  the  great  thing,  alors^  though 
you  have  been  up  here  two  years,"  he  said.  "  You 
do  not  feel,  you  do  not  know.  What  good 
have  you  done  ?  Who  has  got  on  his  knees  and 
changed  his  life  because  of  you  ?  Who  has  told 
his  beads  or  longed  for  the  mass  because  of  you  ? 
Tell  me,  who  has  ever  said,  '  You  have  showed 
me  how  to  live  '  ?  Even  the  women,  though  they 
cry  sometimes  when  you  sing-song  the  prayers, 
go  on  just  the  same  when  the  little  *•  Bless  you  '  is 
over.  Why  ?  Most  of  them  know  a  better  thing 
than  you  tell  them.  Here  is  the  truth :  you  are 
little  —  eh,  so  very  little.  You  never  lied  — 
direct ;  you  never  stole  the  waters  that  are  sweet ; 
you  never   knew  the  big  dreams  that  came   with 

XI2 


The  Red  Patrol 


wine  in  the  dead  of  night ;  you  never  swore  at 
your  own  soul,  and  heard  it  laugh  back  at  you  ; 
you  never  put  your  face  in  the  breast  of  a  woman 
—  no,  do  not  look  so  wild  at  me  !  —  you  never 
had  —  a  child;  you  never  saw  the  world  and  your- 
self through  the  doors  of  life.  You  never  have 
said,  '  I  am  tired,  I  am  sick  of  all.^  I  have  seen  it  all.' 
You  have  never  felt  what  comes  after — under- 
standing. Chut^  your  talk  is  for  children  —  and 
missionaries.  You  are  a  prophet  without  a  call, 
you  are  a  leader  without  a  man  to  lead,  you  are 
less  than  a  child  up  here.  For  here  the  children 
feei  a  peace  in  their  blood  when  the  stars  come 
out,  and  a  joy  in  their  brains  when  the  dawn 
comes  up  and  reaches  a  yellow  hand  to  the  Pole, 
and  the  west  wind  shouts  at  them.  Holy  Mother, 
we  in  the  far  north,  we  feel  things,  for  all  the 
great  souls  of  the  dead  are  up  there  at  the  Pole  in 
the  Pleasant  Land,  and  we  have  seen  the  Scarlet 
Hunter  and  the  Kimash  Hills.  You  have  seen 
nothing.  You  have  only  heard,  and  because,  like 
a  child,  you  have  never  sinned,  you  come  and 
preach  to  us ! " 

The  night  was  folding  down  fast,  all   the  stars 
were  shooting   out    into  their   places,  and    in  the 
North  the  white  lights  of  the  Aurora  were  flying 
8  113 


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M     U 


The  Red  Patrol 

to  and  fro.  Pierre  had  spoken  with  a  slow  force 
and  precision,  yet,  as  he  went  on,  his  eyes  almost 
became  fixed  on  those  shifting  lights,  and  a  deep 
look  came  into  them,  as  he  was  moved  by  his  own 
eloquence.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  made  so 
long  a  speech  at  once.  He  paused,  and  then  said 
suddenly,  "  Come,   let   us  run." 

He  broke  into  a  long  sliding  trot,  and  Sherburne 
did  the  same.  With  their  arms  gathered  to  their 
sides,  they  ran  for  quite  two  miles  without  a  word, 
until  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  minister  brought 
Pierre  up  suddenly. 

"  You  do  not  run  well,"  he  said ;  "  you  do  not 
run  with  the  whole  body.  You  know  so  little. 
Did  you  ever  think  how  much  such  men  as  Jean 
Criveau  know  ?  The  earth  they  read  like  a  book, 
the  sky  like  an  animal's  ways,  and  a  man's  face 
like — the   Writing  on  the  Wall." 

"  Like  the  Writing  on  the  Wall,"  said  Sher- 
burne, musing,  for  under  the  other's  influence  his 
petulance  was  gone.  He  knew  that  he  was  not 
a  part  of  this  life,  that  he  was  ignorant  of  it ;  of, 
indeed,  all  that  was  vital  in  it  and  in  men  and 
women. 

"I  think  you  began  this  too  soon.  You  should 
have   waited,  then   you    might    have   done    good. 

114 


The  Red  Patrol 

But  here  we  are  wiser  than  you.  You  have  no 
message— no  real  message  to  give  us  ;  down  in 
your  heart  you  are  not  even  sure  of  yourself." 

Sherburne  sighed.  "  1  'm  of  no  use,"  he  said, 
"  I  '11  get  out.      I  'm  no  good  at  all." 

Pierre's  eyes  glistened.  He  remembered  how, 
the  day  before,  this  youth  had  said  hot  words  about 
his  card-playing,  had  called  him  —  in  effect —  a 
thief,  had  treated  him  as  an  inferior,  as  became 
one   who  was  of  St.  Augustine's,   Canterbury. 

"ft  is  the  great  thing  to  be  free,"  Pierre  said, 
"that  no  man  shall  look  for  this  or  that  of 
you.  Just  to  do  as  far  as  you  feel,  as  far  as  you 
are  sure,  that  is  the  thing.  In  this  you  are  not 
sure  —  no.      Hein^  is   it  not  ?  " 

Sherburne  did  not  answer.  Anger,  distrust, 
wretchedness,  the  spirit  of  the  alien,  loneliness,' 
were  alive  in  him.  The  magnetism  of  this  deep, 
penetratinjr  man,  possessed  of  a  devil,  was  on  him' 
and  in  spite  of  every  reasonable  instinct,  he  turned 
to  him  for  companionship. 

"  It  's  been  a  failure,"  he  burst  out,  "  and  1  'm 
sick  of  it  —  sick  of  it  ;   but  I  can't  give  it  up." 

Pierre  said  nothing.  Thev  had  come  to  what 
seemed  a  vast  semicircle  of  ice  and  snow,  a  huge 
amphitheatre   in    the    plains.      It   was   wonderful; 

"5 


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The  Red  Patrol 

a  great  round  wall  on  which  the  Northern  Lights 
played,  into  which  the  stars  peered.  It  was  opened 
towards  the  North,  and  in  one  side  was  a  rissure 
shaped  like  a  Gothic  arch.  Pierre  pointed  to  it, 
and  they  did  not  speak  till  they  had  passed  through 
it,  and  stood  inside.  Like  great  seats  the  steppes 
of  snow  ranged  round,  and  in  the  centre  was  a 
kind  of  plateau  of  ire,  as  it  might  seem  a  stage  or 
an  altar.  To  the  North  there  was  a  great  open- 
ing, the  lost  arc  of  the  circle,  through  which  the 
mystery  of  the  Pole  swept  in  and  out,  or  brooded 
there  where  no  man  may  question  it.  Pierre 
stood  and  looked.  Time  and  again  he  had  been 
here,  and  had  asked  the  same  question :  Who 
had  ever  sat  on  those  frozen  benches,  and  looked 
down  at  the  drama  on  that  stage  below  ?  Who 
played  the  parts  ?  Was  it  a  farce  or  a  sacrifice  ? 
To  him  had  been  given  the  sorrow  of  imagination, 
and  he  wondered,  and  wondered.  Or  did  they 
come  still  —  those  Strange  People,  whoever  they 
were  —  and  watch  ghostly  gladiators  at  their  deadly 
sport  ?  If  they  came,  when  was  it  ?  Perhaps 
they  were  there  now  unseen.  In  spite  of  himself 
he  shuddered.  Who  was  the  Keeper  of  the 
House  ? 

Through  his  mind  there  ran  —  pregnant   to  him 

ii6 


i«    ' 


The  Red  Patrol 

for  the  first  time  —  a  chanson  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter, 
the  Red  Patrol,  the  sentinel  of  the  North,  who 
guarded  the  sleepers  in  the  Kimash  Hills  against 
the  time  they  should  awake  and  possess  the  land 
once  more ;  the  friend  of  the  lost,  the  lover  of  the 
vagabond,  and  all  who  had  no  home :  — 

Strangers  come  to  the  outer  walls  —       ^ 

{}Vhy  do  the  Sleepers  stir  F) 
Strangers  enter  the  Judgment  House  — 

(/r/;y  do  the  Sleepers  sigh  F) 
Slow  they  rise  in  their  judgment  seats, 
Sieve  and  measure  the  naked  souls, 
Then  with  a  blessing  return  to  sleep  — 

(:^aet  the  Judgment  House.^ 
Lone  and  sick  are  the  vagrant  souls  — 

(^irhen  shall  the  -xvorld  come  home  ?) 

He  reflected  the  words,  and  a  feeling  of  awe 
came  over  him,  for  he  had  been  in  the  White 
Valley  and  had  seen  the  Scarlet  Hunter.  But 
there  came  at  once  also  a  sinister  desire  —  to  play 
a  game  for  this  man's  life-work  here.  He  knew 
that  the  other  was  ready  for  any  wild  move ;  there 
was  upon  him  the  sense  of  failure  and  disgust ;  he 
was  acted  on  by  the  magic  of  the  night,  the  terrible 
delight  of  the  scene,  and  that  might  be  turned  to 
advantage. 

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The  Red  Patrol 

Pierre  said  :  "  Am  I  not  right  ?  There  is  some- 
thing in  the  world  greater  than  the  creeds  and  the 
book  of  the  mass.  To  be  free,  and  to  enjoy  ;  that 
is  the  thing.  Never  before  have  you  felt  what 
you  feel  here  now.  And  I  will  show  you  more. 
I  will  teach  you  how  to  know,  I  will  lead  you 
through  all  the  North  and  make  you  to  under- 
stand the  things  of  life.  Then,  when  you  have 
known,  you  can  return  if  vou  will.  But  now  — 
see;  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do:  here  on  this 
great  platform  we  will  play  a  game  of  cards. 
There  is  a  man  whose  life  I  can  ruin.  If  you 
win,  I  promise  to  leave  him  safe,  and  to  go  out  of 
the  Far  North  for  ever,  to  go  back  to  Quebec  "  — 
he  had  a  kind  of  gaming  fever  in  his  veins;  — 
"  if  I  win,  you  give  up  the  Church,  leaving  behind 
the  Prayer-book,  the  Bible,  and  all,  coming  with 
me  to  do  what  I  shall  tell  you  for  the  passing  of 
twelve  moons.  It  is  a  great  stake  —  will  you  play 
it?  Come"  —  he  leaned  forward,  looking  into 
the  other's  face  —  "will  vou  play  it  ?  They  drew 
lots  —  those  people  in  the  Bible;  we  will  draw 
lots  and  see,  eh  ?  and  see  ?  " 

"  I  '11  do  it,"  said  Sherburne,  with  a  little  gasp. 
'^  I  accept  the  stake." 

Without  a  word  thev  went  upon  that  platform, 

1 1 8 


The  Red  Patrol 

shaped  like  an  altar,  and  Pierre  at  once  drew  out  a 
pack  of  cards,  shuffling  them  with  his  mittened 
hands.  Then  he  knelt  down,  and  said,  as  he  laid 
out  the  cards  one  by  one  till  there  were  thirty, 
"  Whoever  gets  the  ace  of  hearts  first  wins  — 
hein  F  " 

Sherburne  nodded  and  knelt  also.  The  cards 
lay  backs  upwards  in  three  rows.  P  or  a  moment 
neither  stirred.  The  white  metallic  stars  saw  it, 
the  small  crescent  moon  beheld  it,  and  the  wide 
awe  of  night  made  it  strange  and  dreadful.  Once 
or  twice  Sherburne  looked  round  as  though  he  felt 
others  present,  and  once  Pierre  looked  out  to  the 
wide  portals  as  though  he  saw  some  one  entering. 
But  there  was  nothing  to  the  eye  —  nothing. 
Presently  Pierre  said,  "  Begin." 

The  other  drew  a  card,  then  Pierre  drew  one, 
then  the  other,  then  Pierre  again  i  and  so  on. 
How  slow  the  game  was  !  Neither  hurried,  but 
both,  kneeling,  looked  and  looked  at  the  cards  long 
before  drawing  and  turning  it  over.  The  stake 
was  weighty,  and  Pierre  loved  the  game  more  than 
he  cared  about  the  stake.  Sherburne  cared  nothing 
about  the  game,  but  all  his  soul  seemed  set  upon 
the  hazard.  There  was  not  a  sound  out  of  the 
night,  nothing  stirring  but  the  Spirit  of  the  North. 

119 


* 


'^^^mc^^gjgm 


'•^^mmmiiSmk 


I    ■     ' 


i  ■ 


V 


I  ?i  :!. 


The  Red  Patrol 

Twenty,  twenty-five  cards  were  drawn,  and  then 
Pierre  paused. 

"  In  a  minute  all  will  be  settled,"  he  said. 
"  Will  you  go  on  ?  or  will  you  pause  ?  " 

But  Sherburne  had  got  the  madness  of  chance 
in  his   veins   now,  and    he  said,   "  Quick,   quick. 


go  on 


I 


>> 


Pierre  drew ;  but  the  great  card  held  back. 
Sherburne  drew,  then  Pierre  again.  There  were 
three  left.  Sherburne's  face  was  as  white  as  the 
snow  around  him.  His  mouth  was  open,  and  a 
little  white  cloud  of  frosted  breath  came  out. 
His  hand  hungered  for  the  card,  drew  back,  then 
seized  it.  A  moan  broke  from  him.  Then 
Pierre  with  a  little  weird  laugh  reached  out  and 
turned  over  —  the  ace  of  hearts  ! 

They  both  stood  up.  Pierre  put  the  cards  in 
his  pocket.      "  You  have  lost,"  he  said. 

Sherburne  threw  back  his  head  with  a  reckless 
laugh.  The  laugh  seemed  to  echo  and  echo 
through  the  amphitheatre,  and  then  from  the  frozen 
seats,  the  hillocks  of  ice  and  snow,  there  was  a 
long  low  sound  as  of  sorrow,  and  a  voice  came 
after : 

"  Sleep — sleep.  Blessed  he  the  just  and  the  keepers 
of  vows" 

120 


1  I 


The  Red  Patrol 


in 


Sherburne  stood  shaking  as  if  he  had  seen  a  host 
of  spirits.  His  eyes  on  the  great  seats  of  judg- 
ment, he  said  to  Pierre :  "  See,  see,  how  they 
sit  there,  gray  and  cold  and  awful." 

But  Pierre  shook  his  head.  "There  "is  nothing," 
he  said,  "nothing;"  yet  he  knew  that  Sherburne 
was  looking  upon  the  Men  of  Judgment  of  the 
Kimash  Hills,  the  Sleepers.  And  he  looked  round, 
half-fearfully,  for  if  here  were  those  great  children 
of  the  ages,  where  was  the  Keeper  of  the  House, 
the  Red  Patrol  ? 

Even  as  he  thought,  a  figure  in  scarlet  with  a 
noble  face  and  a  high  pride  of  bearing  stood  be- 
fore them,  not  far  away.  Sherburne  clutched  his 
arm,  and  Pierre  muttered  an  ave. 

Then  the  Red  Patrol,  the  Scarlet  Hunter,  spoke  : 
"Why  have  you  sinned  your  sins  and  broken  your 
vows  within  our  House  of  Judgment?  Know  ye 
not  that  in  the  new  springtime  of  the  world  ye 
shall  be  outcast,  because  ye  have  called  the  sleepers 
to  judgment  before  their  time  ?  But  I  am  the 
hunter  of  the  lost.  Go  you,"  he  said  to  Sherburne, 
pointing,  "where  a  sick  man  lies  in  a  hut  in  the 
Shikam  Valley.  In  his  soul,  find  thine  own  again." 
Then  to  Pierre:  "For  thee,  thou  shalt  know  the 
desert  and  the  storm  and  the  Lonely  Hills  —  thou 

121 


\ 


A 


fi 


i  u  • 


if. 


I!   » 


The  Red  Patrol 
shalt  neither   seek   nor    find.      Go,  and  return  no 


more. 


»> 


The  two  men,  Sherburne  falteringlv,  stepped 
down,  and  moved  to  the  open  plain.  They  turned 
at  the  great  entrance,  and  looked  back.  Where 
they  had  stood  there  rested  on  his  long  bow  the 
Red  Patrol.  He  raised  it,  and  a  flaming  arrow  flew 
through  the  sky  towards  the  South.  They  followed 
its  course  and  when  they  looked  back  a  little  after- 
wards the  great  Judgment  House  was  empty,  and 
the  whole  North  was  silent  as  the  Sleepers. 

At  dawn  they  came  to  the  hut  in  the  Shikam 
Valley,  and  there  they  found  a  trapper  dying.  He 
had  sinned  greatly,  and  he  could  not  die  without 
some  one  to  show  him  how,  and  to  tell  him  what 
to  say  to  the  Angel  of  the  Cross  Roads  ;  and  his 
Indian  guide  knew  only  the  password  to  the  Lodge 
of  the  Great  Fires. 

But  Sherburne,  kneeling  bv  him,  felt  his  own 
new  soul  moved  by  a  holy  fire,  and  first  praying 
for  himself,  he  said  to  the  sick  man :  "  For  if  lue 
confess  our  sins^  He  is  faithful  and  just  to  forgive 
us  our  sins^   and  to  cleanse   us  from  all  unrighteous- 


ness. 


a 


And  praying  for  both,  his  heart  grew  strong,  and 
he  heard  the  sick  man  sav  ere  he  journeyed  forth 

122 


The  Red  Patrol 

to  the   Cross    Roads:    '^  You    have  shown  mc  the 
way.      I  have  peace." 

"Speak  forme  in  the  Presence,"  said  Sherburne 
softly. 

The  dying  man  could  not  answer,  hut  as  he 
journeyed  forth  that  moment,  he  held  Sherburne's 
hand. 


123 


V. 


V: 


li 


i 


imi 


If 


f!' 


f^ 


The  House  with  the 
Broken  Shutter 


r. 


■ ) 


I      f 


,i 


Iv 


He  stands  in  the  porch  of  the  world  — 

{ff^/ij  should  the  door  be  shut  ?) 
The  gray  wolf  waits  at  his  heel, 

{JVhy  is  the  ^ivindonv  barred  f*) 
Wild  is  the  trail  from  the  Kimash  Hills, 
The  blight  has  fallen  on  bush  and  tree, 
The  choking  earth  has  swallowed  the  streams, 
Hungry  and  cold  is  the  Red  Patrol  : 

{lf'7{y  should  the  door  be  shut  F) 
The  Scarlet  Hunter  has  come  to  bide  — 

(//7/y  is  the  avindoiv  barred  ?) 


PIERRE  stopped  to  listen.  The  voice  singing 
was  clear  and  soft,  vc'.  strong  —  a  ?nezzo- 
soprano  without  any  culture  save  that  of  practice 
and  native  taste.  It  had  a  singular  charm  —  a 
sweet,  fantastic  sincerity.  He  stood  still  and  fast- 
ened his  eyes  on  the  house,  a  few  rods  away.  It 
stood  on  a  knoll  perching  above  Fort  Ste.  Anne. 
Years  had  passed  since  Pierre  had  visited  the  Fort, 

124 


'm\ 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 

and  he  was  now  on  his  way  to  it  again,  after 
many  wanderini.';s.  7'he  house  had  stood  here 
in  the  old  days,  and  he  renumbered  it  very  well, 
for  against  it  John  Marcev,  the  Companv's  man, 
was  shot  by  Stroke  La  force,  of  the  Mounted 
Police,  the  Riders  of  the  Plains,  l^ooking  now, 
he  saw  that  the  shutter,  which  had  been  pulled 
off  lo  bear  the  body  awav,  was  hanging  there  just 
as  he  had  placed  it,  with  seven  of  its  slats  broken 
and  a  dark  stain  in  one  corner.  Something  more 
of  John  Marcey  than  memory  attached  to  that 
shutter.  His  eyes  dwelt  on  it  long —  he  recalled 
the  scene :  a  night  with  stars  and  no  moon,  a 
huge  bonfire  to  light  the  Indians,  at  their  dance, 
and  Marcev,  Laforce,  and  many  others  there, 
among  whom  was  Lucille,  the  little  daughter  of 
Gyng  the  Factor.  Marcey  and  Laforce  were 
only  boys  then,  neither  vet  twentv-three,  and  they 
were  friendlv  rivals  with  the  sweet  little  coquette, 
who  gave  her  favors  with  a  singular  impartiality 
and  justice.  Once  Marcev  hpd  given  her  a  gold 
spoon.  Laforce  responded  with  a  tinv,  fretted 
silver  basket.  Laforce  was  delighted  to  see  her 
carrying  her  basket  —  till  she  opened  it  and  showed 
the  spoon  inside.  'Lhere  were  many  mock  quar- 
rels, in  one  of  which  Marcey  sent  her  a  letter  by 

125 


■arrifff 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 


» 


the  Company's  courier,  covered  with  great  seals, 
saying,  "  I  return  you  the  hairpin,  the  egg-shell, 
and  the  white  wolf's  tooth,  (jo  to  vour  Laforce, 
or  whatever  his  ridiculous  name  niav  be." 

In  this  way  the  pretty  game  ran  on,  the  little 
golden-haired,  golden-faced,  goldcn-\  oiccd  child 
dancing  so  gavly  in  their  hearts,  but  nestling  in 
them  too,  after  her  wilful  fashion,  until  the  serious 
thing  came  —  the  tragedy. 

On  the  mad  night  when  all  ended,  she  was  in 
the  gayest,  the  most  elf-like  spirits.  All  went 
well  until  iMarcey  dug  a  hole  in  the  ground,  put 
a  stone  in  it,  and,  burying  it,  said  it  was  Laforce's 
heart.  Then  I^aforce  pretended  to  ventriloquize, 
and  mocked  Marcey's  slight  stutter.  That  was 
the  beginning  of  the  trouble,  and  Lucille,  like  any 
lady  of  the  world,  troubled  at  Laforce's  unkind- 
ness,  tried  to  smooth  things  o\'cr  —  tried  very 
gravely.  But  the  playful  rivalry  of  many  months 
changed  its  composition  suddenly  as  through  some 
delicate  yet  powerful  chemical  action,  and  the 
savage  in  both  men  broke  out  suddenly.  Where 
moti\es  and  emotions  are  few  they  are  the  more 
vital,  their  action  is  the  more  violent.  No  one 
knew  quite  what  the  two  young  men  said  to  each 
other,  but  presently,  while  the  Indian  dance  was  on, 

126 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 


they  drew  to  the  side  of  the  house,  and  had  their 
duel  out  in  the  halt-shadows,  no  one  knowing,  till 
the  shots  rang  on  the  night,  and  John  Marcey, 
without  a  cry,  sprang  into  the  air  and  fell  face  up- 
wards, shot  through  the  heart. 

Thev  tried  to  take  the  child  awav,  but  she 
would  not  go  ;  and  when  thev  can  ied  Marcey  on 
the  shutter  she  followed  close  bv,  resisting  her 
father's  wishes  and  commands.  And  just  before 
they  made  a  prisoner  of  Laforce,  she  said  to  him 
very  quietly  —  so  like  a  woman  she  was  —  "I 
will  give  you  back  the  basket,  and  the  riding-whip, 
and  the  other  things,  and  1  will  never  forgive  vou 
—  never —  no,  never!  " 

Stroke  Laforce  had  given  himself  up,  had  him- 
self ridden  to  Winnipeg,  a  thousand  miles,  and 
told  his  stor\'.  Then  the  sergeant's  stripes  had 
been  stripped  from  his  arm,  he  had  been  tried,  and 
on  his  own  statement  had  got  twelve  years'  im- 
prisonment. Ten  vears  had  passed  since  then  — 
since  Marcev  was  put  awav  in  his  grave,  since 
Pierre  left  Fort  Ste.  Anne,  and  he  had  not  seen  it 
or  Lucille  in  all  that  time.  But  he  knew  that 
Gyng  was  dead,  and  that  his  widow  and  her  child 
had  gone  south  or  east  somewhere ;  of  T^aforce 
after   his  sentence  he   had   ne\'er   heard. 

127 


( 


a  K  / 


iJSj; 


n 


«/il' 


Kl 


7'he  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 

He  stood  looking  at  the  house  from  the  shade 
of  the  solitary  pine-tree  near  it,  recalling  every 
incident  of  that  fatal  night.  He  had  the  gift  of 
looking  at  a  thing  in  its  true  proportions,  perhaps 
because  he  had  little  emotion  and  a  strong  brain, 
or  perhaps  because  early  in  life  his  emotions  were 
rationalized.     Presently  he  heard  the  voice  again :  — 

He  waits  at  the  threshold  stone  — 

{ff^/iy  should  the  key-hole  rust  ?) 
The  eagle  broods  at  his  side, 

{If'hy  should  the  blind  be  draivn  ?) 
Long  has  he  watched,  and  far  has  he  called  — 
The  lonely  sentinel  of  the  North  — 
**  Who  goes  there  ?  "  to  the  wandering  soul  : 
Heavy  of  heart  is  the  Red  Patrol  — 

(  Why  should  the  key-hole  rust  F) 
The  Scarlet  Hunter  is  sick  for  home, 

(/r/zy  should  the  blind  be  draivn  F) 

Now  he  recognized  the  voice.  Its  golden  tim- 
bre brought  back  a  young  girl's  golden  face  and 
golden  hair.  It  was  summer,  and  the  window 
with  the  broken  shutter  was  open.  He  was  about 
to  go  to  it,  when  a  door  of  the  house  opened,  and 
a  girl  appeared.  She  was  tall,  with  rich,  yellow 
hair  falling  loosely  about  her  head;  she  had  a 
strong,  finely  cut  chin  and  a  broad  brow,  under 
which  a  pair  of  deep  blue  eyes  shone  —  violet  blue, 

128 


d  ^  » 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 

rare  and  fine.  She  stood  looking  down  at  the 
Fort  for  a  few  moments,  unaware  of  Pierre's 
presence.  But  presently  she  saw  him  leaning 
against  the  tree,  and  she  started  as  from  a  spirit. 

"  Monsieur !  "  she  said  —  "  Pierre  !  "  and  stepped 
forward  again  from  the  doorway. 

He  came  to  her,  and  "Ah, /)V/V^  Lucille,*'  he 
said,  "  you  remember  me,  eh  ?  —  and  yet  so  many 
years  ago ! " 

"  But  you  remember  me,"  she  answered,  "  and 
I  have  changed  so  much  !  " 

"It  is  the  man  who  should  remember,  the 
woman   may   forget   if  she  will." 

Pierre  did  not  mean  to  pay  a  compliment ;  he 
was  merely  thinking. 

She  made  a  little  gesture  of  deprecation.  « I 
was  a  child,"  she  said. 

Pierre  lifted  a  shoulder  slightly.  "  What  mat- 
ter? ft  is  sex  that  I  mean.  What  difference  to 
me  — five,  or  forty,  or  ninety  ?  It  is  all  sex.  It 
is  only  lovers,  the  hunters  of  fireflies,  that  think 
of  age  —  mais  oui  !  " 

She   had   a   way   of  looking   at  you   before   she 

spoke,  as  though  she  were  trying  to  find  what  she 

actually  thought.     She  was  one   after  Pierre's  own 

heart,  and  he  knew  it ;  but  just  here  he  wondered 

9  129 


I 


I 


i\ 


,if 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 

where  all  that  ancient  coquetry  was  gone,  for 
there  were  no  traces  of  it  left  ;  she  was  steady  of 
eye,  reposeful,  rich  in  form  and  face,  and  yet  not 
occupied  with  herself.  He  had  only  seen  her  for 
a  minute  or  so,  yet  he  was  sure  that  what  she  was 
just  now  she  was  always,  or  nearly  so,  for  the 
habits  of  a  life  leave  their  mark,  and  show  through 
every  phase  of  emotion  and  incident  whether  it  be 
light  or  grave. 

"  I  think  I  understand  you,"  she  said.  "  I 
think  I  always  did  a  little,  from  the  time  you 
stayed  with  Grab  the  idiot  at  Fort  o'  God,  and 
fought  the  Indians  when  the  others  left.  Only 
—  men  said  bad  things  of  you,  and  my  father  did 
not  like  you,  and  you  spoke  so  little  to  me  ever. 
Yet  I  mind  how  you  used  to  sit  and  watch  me, 
and  I  also  mind  when  you  rode  the  man  down 
who  stole  my  pony,  and  brought  them  both  back." 

Pierre  smiled  —  he  was  pleased  at  this.  "Ah, 
my  young  friend,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  forget  that 
either,  for  though  he  had  shaved  my  ear  with  a 
bullet,  you  would  not  have  him  handed  over  to 
the  Riders  of  the  Plains  —  such  a  tender  heart  !  " 

Her  eyes  suddenly  grew  wide.  She  was  child- 
like in  her  amazement,  indeed,  childlike  in  all 
ways,  for  she  was  very  sincere.      It  was  her  great 

130 


U 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 


to 

>» 


advantage  to  live  where  nothing  was  required  of 
her  but  truth,  she  had  not  suffered  that  sickness, 
social  artifice. 

"  I   never   knew,"   she  said,  "  that   he  had  shot 
at  you  —  never  !      You  did  not  tell  that." 

"There  is  a  time  for  everything — the   time   for 
that  was  not  till  now." 

"  What  could  I  have  done  then  ?  " 

"  You  might  have  left  it  to  me.  I  am  not  so 
pious  that  I  can't  be  merciful  to  the  sinner.  But 
this  man  —  this  Brickney  —  was  a  vile  scoundrel 
always,  and  I  wanted  him  locked  up.  I  would 
have  shot  him  myself,  but  I  was  tired  of  doing  the 
duty  of  the  law.  Yes,  yes,"  he  added,  as  he  saw 
her  smile  a  little.  "  It  is  so.  I  have  love  for 
justice,  even  1,  Pretty  Pierre.  Whv  not  justice 
on  myself?  Ha!  The  law  does  not  its  duty. 
And  maybe  some  day  I  shall  have  to  do  its  work 
on  myself.  Some  are  coaxed  out  of  life,  some 
are  kicked  out,  and  some  open  the  doors  quietly 
for  themselves,  and  go  a-hunting  Outside." 

"  They  used  to  talk  as  if  one  ought  to  fear 
you,"  she  said,  "  but  "  —  she  looked  him  straight 
in  the  eyes — "but  maybe  that's  because  you've 
never  hid  anv  badness." 

"  It   is  no   matter,  anyhow,"  he  answered.     "  I 

'31 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 


f 


^ 


«; 


■ 


live  in  the  open,  I  walk  in  the  open  road,  and  I 
stand  by  what  I  do  to  the  open  law  and  the  gos- 
pel. It  is  my  whim  —  every  man  to  his  own 
saddle  !  " 

It  is  ten  years,"  she  said  abruptly. 
Ten   years   less   five   days,"    he    answered    as 
sententiously. 

"  Come  insid'  "  she  said  quietly,  and  turned  to 
the  door. 

Without  a  w^rd  ^"  turned  also,  but  instead  of 
going  direct  to  the  door  came  and  touched  the 
broken  shutter  aAd  the  dark  stain  on  one  corner 
with  a  delicate  forefinger.  Out  of  the  corner  of 
his  eye  he  could  see  her  on  the  doorstep,  looking 
intently. 

He  spoke  as  if  to  himself:  "It  has  not  been 
touched  since  then  —  no.  It  was  hardly  big 
enough  for  him,  so  his  legs  hung  over.  Ah,  yes, 
ten  years  —  Abroad,  John  Marcev  !  "  Then,  as 
if  still  musing,  he  turned  to  the  girl :  "  He  had 
no  father  or  mother  —  no  one,  of  course  ;  so  that 
it  was  n't  so  bad  after  all.  If  you  've  lived  with 
the  tongue  in  the  last  hole  of  the  buckle  as  you  've 
gone,  what  matter  when  you  go!  C'est  egal  — 
it  is  all  the  same  !  " 

Her  face  had  become  pale  as  he  spoke,  but   no 

132 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 


as 


to 


muscle  stirred  ;  only  her  eyes  filled  with  a  deeper 
color,  and  her  hand  closed  tightly  on  the  door- 
jamb.  "  Come  in,  Pierre,"  she  said,  and  entered. 
He  followed  her.  "  iMy  mother  is  at  the  Fort," 
she  added,  "but  she  will  be  back  soon." 

She  placed  two  chairs  not  far  from  the  open 
door.  They  sat,  and  Pierre  slowly  rolled  a  cigar- 
ette and  lighted  it. 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  here  ?  "  he  asked 
presently. 

"  It  is  seven  years  since  we  came  first,"  she 
replied.  "  After  that  night  they  said  the  place 
was  haunted,  and  no  one  would  live  in  it,  but 
when  mv  father  died  my  mother  and  I  came  for 
three  years.  Then  we  went  east,  and  again  came 
back,  and  here  we  have  been." 

"  The  shutter  ?  "   Pierre  asked. 

They  needed  few  explanations  —  their  minds 
were  moving   with  the  same  thought. 

"  I  would  not  have  it  changed,  and  of  course 
no  one  cared  to  touch  it.  So  it  has  hung 
there." 

"  As  I  placed  it  ten  years  ago,"  he  said. 

They  both  became  silent  for  a  time,  and  at  last 
he  said  :  "  Marcey  had  no  one,  —  Sergeant  La- 
force  a  mother." 

^33 


^ 


> 


1..' 

i 


ill   /w 

I  If   I 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 

"  It  killed  his  mother,"  she  whispered,  looking 
into  the  white  sunlight.  She  was  noting  how  it 
was  flashed  from  the  bark  of  the  birch-trees  near 
the  Fort. 

"His  mother  died,"  she  added  again,  quietly. 
"It   killed   her  —  the  gaol   for  him!" 

"  An  eye  for  an  eye,"  he  responded. 

"  Do  you  think  that  evens  John  xMarcey's 
death  ?  "  she  sighed. 

"As  far  as  Marcey 's  concerned,"  he  answered. 
"  Laforce  has  his  own  reckoning  besides." 

"  It  was  not  a  murder,"  she  urged. 

"It  was  a  fair  fight,"  he  replied  firmly,  "and 
Laforce  shot  straight."  He  was  trying  to  think 
why  she  lived  here,  why  the  broken  shutter  still 
hung  there,  why  the  matter  had  settled  so  deeply 
on  her.  He  remembered  the  song  she  was  sing- 
ing, the  legend  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter,  the  fabled 
Savior  of  the  North. 

Heavy  of  heart  Is  the  Red  Patrol  — 

(/f//)'  should  the  key-hole  rust?) 
The  Scarlet  Hunter  is  sick  for  home, 

(^Why  should  the  blind  be  dran.vn  r") 

He  repeated  the  words,  lingering  on  them.  He 
loved  to  come  at  the  truth  of  things  by  allusive, 
far-ofl^  reflections,  rather  than  by  the  sh^rp  ques- 

134 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 

tioning  of  the  witness-box.  He  had  imagination, 
refinement  in  such  things.  A  light  dawned  on 
him  as  he  spoke  the  words  —  all  became  clear. 
She  sang  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter,  but  she  meant 
some  one  else  !     That  was  it  — 

Hungry  and  cold  is  the  Red  Patrol  — 

{IVhy  should  the  door  he  shut  r*) 
The  Scarlet  Hunter  has  come  to  bide, 

(^IVhy  is  the  n.vindoi.v  barred ? 

But  why  did  she  live  here  ?  To  get  used  to  a 
thought,  to  have  it  so  near  her,  that  if  the  man  — 
if  Laforce  himself  came,  she  would  have  herself 
schooled  to  endure  the  shadow  and  the  misery  of 
it  all  ?  Ah,  that  was  it  !  The  little  girl,  who 
had  seen  her  big  lover  killed,  who  had  said  she 
would  never  forgive  the  other,  who  had  sent  him 
back  the  fretted-silver  basket,  the  riding-whip,  and 
other  things,  had  kept  the  criminal  in  her  mind  all 
these  years ;  had,  out  of  her  childish  coquetry, 
grown  into  —  what  ?  As  a  child  she  had  been 
wise  for  her  years  —  almost  too  wise.  What 
had  happened  ?  She  had  probably  felt  sorrow  for 
Laforce  at  first,  and  afterwards  had  shown  active 
sympathy,  and  at  last  —  no,,  he  felt  that  she  had 
not  quite  forgiven  him,  that,  whatever  was,  she 
had  not  hidden   the   criminal  in   her  heart.     But 

135 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 


( 


why  did  she  sing  that  song  ?  Her  heart  was  plead- 
ing for  him  —  for  the  criminal.  Had  she  and  her 
mother  gone  to  Winnipeg  to  be  near  Laforce,  to 
comfort  him  ?  Was  Laforce  free  now,  and  was 
she  unwilling  ?  It  was  so  strange  that  she  should 
thus  have  carried  on  her  childhood  into  her 
womanhood.  But  he  guessed  her  —  she  had 
imagination. 

"  His  mother  died  in  my  arms  in  Winnipeg," 
she  said  abruptly  at  last.  "  I  'm  glad  I  was  some 
comfort  to  her.  You  see,  it  all  came  through 
me  —  I  was  so  young  and  spoiled  and  silly  — 
John  Marcey's  death,  her  death,  and  his  long  years 
in  prison.  Even  then  I  knew  better  than  to  set 
the  one  against  the  other.  Must  a  child  not  be 
responsible  ?   I  was  —  I  arn  !  " 

"  And  so  you  punish  yourself  ?  " 

"It  was  terrible  for  me  —  even  as  a  child.  I 
said  that  I  could  never  forgive,  but  when  his 
mother  died,  blessing  me,  I  did.  Then  there 
came  something  else  !  " 

"  You  saw  him,  chere  amie  F** 

"  I  saw  him  —  so  changed,  so  quiet,  so  much 
older — all  gray  at  the  temples.  At  first  I  lived 
here  that  I  might  get  used  to  the  thought  of  the 
thing  —  to  learn   to   bear  it;  and   afterwards  that 

136 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 


I  might  learn  — "  she  paused,  looking  in  half- 
doubt  at  Pierre. 

"  It  is  safe  ;   I  am  silent,"  he  said. 

"  That  I  might  learn  to  bear  —  him,"  she 
continued. 

"  Is  he  still —  "  Pierre  paused. 

She  spoke  up  quickly.  "  Oh  no,  he  has  been 
free  two  years." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know."  She  waited  for  a  minute, 
then  said  again,  "  I  don't  know.  When  he  was 
free,  he  came  to  me,  but  I  —  I  could  not.  He 
thought,  too,  that  because  he  had  been  in  gaol, 
that  I  wouldn't  —  be  his  wife.  He  did  n't  think 
enough  of  himself,  he  did  n't  urge  anything.  And 
I  was  n't  ready  —  no  —  no  —  no  —  how  could  I  be  ! 
I  didn't  care  so  much  about  the  gaol,  but  he  had 
killed  John  Marcey.  The  gaol  —  what  was  that 
to  me  !  There  was  no  real  shame  in  it  unless  he 
had  done  a  mean  thing.  He  had  been  wicked  — 
not  mean.  Killing  is  awful,  but  not  shareful. 
Think  —  the  difference  —  if  he  had  been  a  thief !  " 

Pierre  nodded.  "  Then  some  one  should  have 
killed  him  !  "  he  said.     "  Well,  after  ?  " 

"After  —  after — ah,  he  went  away  for  a  year. 
Then  he  came  back  j  but  no,  I  was  always  think- 

137 


),:■ 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 


J 


ing  of  that  night  I  walked  behind  John  Marccy's 
body  to  the  Fort.  So  he  went  away  again,  and 
we  came  here,  and  here  we  have  lived." 

"  He  has  not  come  here  ?  " 

"  No ;  once  from  the  far  north  he  sent  me  a 
letter  by  an  Indian,  saying  that  he  was  going  with 
a  half-breed  to  search  for  a  hunting  partv,  an 
English  gentleman  and  two  men  who  were  lost. 
The  name  of  one  of  the  men  was  Brickncv." 

Pierre  stopped  short  in  a  long  whiffing  of  smoke. 
"Holy!"  he  said,  "that  thief  Brickney  again! 
He  would  steal  the  broad  road  to  hell  if  he  could 
carry  it.  He  once  stole  the  quarters  from  a  dead 
man's  eves.  Mon  Dieu !  to  save  Brickney's  life, 
the  courage  to  do  that !  —  like  sticking  your  face 
in  the  mire  and  eating  —  but,  pshaw!  —  go  on, 
petite   Lucille." 

"  There  is  no  more.      I  never  heard  again." 

"  How  long  was  that  ago  ?  " 

"Nine  months  or  more." 

"  Nothing  has  been  heard  of  any  of  them  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all.  "Fhe  Englishman  belonged 
to  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  but  thev  have 
heard  nothing  down  here  at  Fort  Ste.  Anne." 

"  If  he  saves  the  Companv's  man,  that  will 
make    up    the   man    he    lost   for    them,   ch  —  you 

"38 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 


think  thiit,  cli  ?  Hicrrc's  eves  had  a  curious  ironi- 
cal  hght. 

"  I  do  not  care  for  the  C'ompanv,"  >hc  said. 
"  John  Marccv's  Hfe  wiis  his  own." 

"Cjood!"  he  added  cjuickly,  and  his  eves  ad- 
mired her.  "That  is  the  thing.  Then,  do  not 
forget  that  Marcey  took  his  hfe  in  his  hands  him- 
self, that  he  would  have  killed  I>aforce  if  Laforce 
had  n't  killed  him." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  said,  "hut  I  should  have 
felt  the  same  if  John  Marcey  lad  killed  Stroke 
Laforce." 

"  It  is  a  pity  to  throw  your  life  awav,"  he  \  en- 
tured.  He  said  this  for  a  purpose.  He  did  not 
think  she  was  throwing  it  away. 

She  was  watching  a  little  knot  of  horsemen 
coming  over  a  swell  of  the  prairie  far  off.  She 
withdrew  her  eves  and  fixed  them  on  Pierre. 
"  Do  von  throw  your  life  awav  if  \ou  do  what  is 
the  only  thing  you  are  told  to  dor  " 

She  placed  her  hand  on  her  heart  —  that  had 
been  hor  one  guide. 

Pierre  got  to  his  feet,  came  over,  and  touched 
her  on  the  shoulder. 

"You  have  the  great  secret,"  he  said  quietly. 
"The  thing  may  be  all  wrong   to  others,  but   if 

139 


J! 


i'i»^ 


f. 


V 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 

it's  right  to  yourself — that's  it — mals  oui  !  If 
he  comes,"  he  added  —  "  if  he  comes  back,  think 
of  him  as  well  as  Marcey.  Marcey  is  sleeping  — 
what  does  it  matter  ?  If  he  is  awake^  he  has  bet- 
ter times,  for  he  was  a  man  to  make  another  world 
sociable.  Think  of  Laforce,  for  he  has  his  life  to 
live,  and  he  is  a  man  to  make  this  world  sociable. 

The  Scarlet  Hunter  is  sick  for  home  — 
(^Why  should  the  door  he  shut  F) 

Her  eyes  had  been  following  the  group  of  horse- 
men on  the  plains.  She  again  fixed  them  on 
Pierre,   and   stood   up. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  legend  — that,"  she  said. 

«  But  ?  —  but  ?  —  "he  asked. 

She  would  not  answer  him.  "  You  will  come 
again,"  she  said  ;  "  you  will  —  help  me." 

"  Surely,  petite  Lucille,  surely,  I  will  come  ! 
But  to  help  —  ah,  that  would  sound  funny  to  the 
Missionary  at  the  Fort  and  to  others." 

"  You  understand  life,"  she  said,  "  and  I  can 
speak  to  you." 

"  It  's  more  to  you  to  understand  you  than  to 
be  good,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  guess  it 's  more  to  any  woman,"  she 
answered. 

140 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 


can 


she 


They  both  passed  out  of  the  house.  She  turned 
towards  the  broken  shutter.  Then  their  eyes 
met.      A  sad  little  smile  hovered  at  her  lips. 

"  What  is  the  use  ?  "  she  said,  and  her  eyes 
fastened  on  the  horsemen. 

He  knew  now  that  she  would  never  shudder 
again  at  the  sight  of  it,  or  at  the  remembrance  of 
Marcey's  death. 

"  But  he  will  come,"  was  the  reply  to  her,  and 
her  smile  almost  settled  and  stayed. 

They  parted,  and  as  he  went  down  the  hill  he 
saw  far  over,  coming  up,  a  woman  in  black,  who 
walked  as  if  she  carried  a  great  weight.  "  Every 
shot  that  kills  ricochets,"  he  said  to  himself: 

"  His  mother  dead  —  her  mother  so  !  " 

He  passed  into  the  Fort,  renewing  acquaintances 
in  the  Companv's  store,  and  twenty  minutes  after 
he  was  one  to  greet  the  horsemen  that  Lucille  had 
seen  coming  over  the  hills.  Thev  were  five,  and 
one  had  to  be  helped  from  his  horse.  It  was 
Stroke  Laforce,  who  had  been  found  near  dead  at 
the  Metal  River  by  a  party  of  men  exploring  in 
the  north. 

He  had  rescued  the  Englishman  and  his  party, 
but  within  a  day  of  the  finding  the  Englishman 
died,  leaving  him   his  watch,  a  rinj;,  and  a  cheque 

141 


■«'W|tftW.'<1M||':»iHai|fa-,tti(lft.?Jg'  • 


/ 


a 


«^ 


^j 


/: 


The  House  with  the  Broken  Shutter 

on  the  H.  B.  C.  at  Winnipeg.  He  and  the  two 
survivors,  one  of  whom  was  Brickney,  started 
south.  One  night  Brickney  robbed  him  and 
made  to  get  away,  and  on  his  seizing  the  thief 
he  was  wounded.  Then  the  other  man  came  to 
his  help  and  shot  Brickney:  after  that  wee^  of 
wandering,  and  at  last  rescue  and  P'ort  Ste.  Anne. 

A  half-hour  after  this  Pierre  left  Laforce  on 
the  crest  of  the  hill  above  the  Fort,  and  did  not 
turn  to  go  down  till  he  had  seen  the  other  pass 
within  the  house  with  the  broken  shutter.  And 
later  he  saw  a  little  bonfire  on  the  hill.  The 
next  evening  he  came  to  the  house  again  himself. 
Lucille  rose  to  meet  him. 

"  4  IVhy  shoidld  the  door  be  shut  r'^  '  "  he  said 
smiling.  / 

"  The  door  is  open,"  she  answered  quickly  and 
with  a  (juiet  joy. 

He  turned  to  the  motion  of  her  hand,  and  saw 
Laforce  asleep  on  a  couch. 

Soon  afterwards,  as  he  passed  from  the  house, 
he  turned  towards  the  window.  I'he  broken 
shutter   was  gone. 

He  knew  now  the  meaning  of  the  bon-fire  the 
night   before. 


14: 


